


The Waves Of Change

by Wren_bird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Real World, Business War AU, Dogfather, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Lucius Malfoy's shitty ethics/opinions, Lucius Malfoy's shitty parenting, M/M, Moomy and Dadfoot, Mutual Pining, Shared Trauma, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21750850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_bird/pseuds/Wren_bird
Summary: Harry Potter has it all. A fun, unconventional living situation, rich godfathers, a charming smile and some seriously great hair. He's the prince of the business world, even if he could do without all the media attention. Everyone knows he's been feuding with Draco Malfoy, heir to their largest competitor, since birth. They can't even be in the same room without punches being thrown.But then some shared trauma brings them together, and a begrudging friendship forms over conspiracies and commiserating. And that's totally all. Because how cliche would it be to fall in love with your sworn enemy?
Relationships: Background Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, background Remus Lupin/Sirius Black - Relationship, background Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger
Comments: 56
Kudos: 501





	1. This Is Why We Should Just Never Leave The House Again

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first multiple-chapter fic. I've been working on this for months, so I hope you all enjoy it! I'll be posting updates every other day, so the full thing should be up soon. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of death/murder, guns, light violence, the teeniest tiniest hint of period-typical homophobia in a flashback, mention of alcohol. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more!

**HARRY**

Harry Potter kept a scrapbook in a shoebox at the bottom of his wardrobe. Nobody knew about the scrapbook, except for the cleaning lady, who found it when she was looking for somewhere to put his new dress shoes. 

There were clippings and photographs that depicted the life of not just himself, but the people who meant the most to him. His parents, his godfathers, his best friends. 

He had some gingham-tinted Polaroids from his parents’ small wedding, nearly two decades ago. They looked young and radiant, holding hands at the altar and twirling around on the dance floor. You’d never have guessed Harry’s mother was already expecting him. 

He had glossy photographs of the day he was born, of his father stood outside a shop with his godfathers, back when they were business partners, newspaper articles on how well their joke shop had done, and how they were expanding to toys. 

Harry kept track of the sad bits of life, too. Articles with headlines like, “ _James and Lily Potter, 21, Murdered in Home_ ,” “ _Peter Pettigrew Found Guilty of Potter Murders, Sirius Black Acquitted_ ,” and, “ _Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, Same-Sex Partners, To Raise Harry Potter Together_ ”.

Not that his life with Remus and Sirius was sad — he couldn’t imagine a happier life, especially after having heard about how nasty his mother’s family seemed to be. Harry grew up with punk-rock vinyls and classic literature, late-night motorbike rides and stargazing trips. 

He was raised never wanting for anything. Well, except for a living father and mother. 

James and Lily were killed just after a massive career success. Toymaking had turned out so well for James, Remus, Sirius and Peter, (by then, working under the name Marauders Incorporated) that they decided to expand to the entertainment industry. They started with children’s programmes, then comedies, and before long they were sensations in the world of filmmaking. After a few years, they branched out even further, dappling in the stock market or the Information Technology industry. 

The strange and tragic death of the Potters, and Harry’s unconventional living situation, brought quite a lot of media attention to his little family. Some of his earliest memories involved scrapes with the paparazzi. 

The tabloids adored him, though. Since the age of thirteen, he’d been a sort of prince of the business world. The Boy Who Lived, they called him. Sirius thought it was a great laugh. Especially whenever he’d see a teen magazine going on about how Harry was mysterious, kind, clever, and athletic. 

It could all be a bit overwhelming at times. The smiling, the handshakes, the selfies, always having to look over your shoulder. But Harry knew that, if he ever felt truly uncomfortable with all the attention, Remus and Sirius would get a restraining order on anyone in the city with a camera, or drop everything and move to some remote farmhouse in Scotland. 

_A farmhouse in Scotland seems lovely right now_ , Harry thought to himself, as he tied his bowtie in the bathroom mirror. Remus stood beside him, combing his hair and listening to Sirius complain bitterly about the gala they were attending that evening. 

“Sybill Trelawney will be there again,” Sirius whined from his bedroom. “She’s always cornering me to talk about astronomy or Mercury in retrograde or some rubbish like that.” He marched into the bathroom. “Just because I’m _named_ after a star, it doesn’t mean I _care_ about stars.”

“You do care about stars, though, Sirius,” Remus said serenely. “How many years in a row have we gone to Exmoor?”

“But that’s different! I don’t miss any drinks and appetizers at Exmoor because I’m discussing the phases of the moon.”

“At the last party,” Harry said, “he didn’t have any time to make fun of people with me, because Sybill Trelawney was telling him about auras.”

Sirius flapped his hands at Harry, in an, ‘I told you so,’ sort of way. 

Remus sighed, and walked over to Sirius. “If you’re cornered by that woman again,” he said, reaching out to straighten Sirius’ collar, “I’ll pretend to pass out and we can go home early.”

Sirius grinned, leaned forwards, and pecked his lips. 

“Sounds marvellous.”

Harry looked at himself in the mirror and cringed. 

“Don’t act so prudish, Harry,” Remus said. “I seem to remember a Ginny Weasley—”

“Hey!”

Harry realized that the mention of Ginny didn’t sting as much as he thought it might. They’d been together for several months, much to Ron’s chagrin. But they ended up breaking it off when they realized they were more interested in the sports they played than each other. 

“What time is the car getting here?” Harry asked. 

“Not for another half-hour,” Remus replied. 

Harry went to sit in the lounge. Of all the rooms in their large flat, the lounge was his favourite. There was a massive sectional sofa in the middle of the room, one side facing the television, and the other the city skyline, visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

He switched on the TV — an old episode of _Fawlty Towers_ was playing — and Sirius, from the kitchen, said, “I’ll starve to death if all they’ve got are those moronic little _hors d’oeuvres_.” He pronounced the last two words with an over-the-top French accent. 

Harry was hit in the back of the head with something lightweight. A packet of Walkers crisps tumbled onto the sofa beside him. 

“You need to work on your reflexes, Potter,” Sirius said. Harry turned around to argue that there was no way to _know_ he had to catch the crisp packet, unless he had eyes on the back of his head, when he fell into a surprised silence. 

“Are you wearing a baby’s bib?” he asked, pointing to what was undeniably a baby’s bib, with black dogs stitched on it.

“It’s to preserve the suit. I don’t know why they don’t make them for adults, really.”

Harry looked at Remus, so they could go on about how insane Sirius was, only to spot him sitting cross-legged on the counter, eating a packet of Smoky Bacon crisps with a moon-patterned bib tied around his neck. 

“You’re both mental,” Harry said, a laugh seeping into his voice. 

Harry leaned against a wooden post in the ballroom. The gala was in one of those spaces in hotels that were available for events like weddings. There were tables set up by the door, and a string quartet was playing by the tile dancefloor. Overhead, an indoor balcony wrapped around the room. 

Guests were milling about. Harry caught sight of Remus and Sirius chatting with an older woman, wearing spectacles and an emerald-green dress. He was growing bored, and was half-tempted to find someone to dance with. 

“Excuse me?”

A woman with pale blonde curls and ostentatious rhinestone glasses stepped up to him. She was holding a notepad, and a couple of men with cameras stood on either side of her. 

“You are Harry Potter, aren’t you? I’ve got some questions for you, Mr. Potter, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, actually, I—”

The woman ignored him, and said, “Is it true that you suffer from night terrors, surrounding the subject of your parents’ gruesome murder?”

“I really don’t think—”

“Would you care to comment on the rumours of your being involved with a certain young royal?”

“Now, that’s not—”

“And just _who_ are you wearing tonight?”

Harry resisted the urge to take her notepad and throw it across the room. 

“Oh, look over there!” he said, pointing to the door. “I think that’s Elton John who just walked in!”

The reporter and the photographers all turned, a couple of camera flashes going off. Harry slipped away, up the stairs, and let himself disappear into the crowd on the balcony. He glanced down at the ballroom, and saw the reporter and photographers being led out of the building by security guards. 

He pushed past a large group of women in evening dresses, all holding elegant flutes of champagne, and walked around the balcony, until he found himself at the terrace doors. 

The night was clear, and Harry wondered if he would be able to see any stars, in spite of the city lights. He opened the doors and stepped out onto the terrace, only to see someone his age leaning on the railing. 

Draco Malfoy. 

Harry’s heart began to pound in his chest, the sound reverberating throughout his body. His hands curled into fists. He hated Draco, the same way Batman probably hated the Joker. Or Romeo would have hated Juliet, if he weren’t hit so hard by the lust train. 

He was the son of Lucius Malfoy, current head of Malfoy Enterprises. For as long as Harry could remember, Malfoy Enterprises had been butting heads with Marauders Incorporated over political influence, industry expansions, land . . . just about every conceivable business feud had happened between the two companies. 

These disputes would sometimes become personal, because Sirius had once been a part of the family that ran Malfoy Enterprises. Near the end of secondary school, they’d had some big row, and Sirius was banished from both clan and company. 

The Malfoys and their extended family were a bunch of stuck-up dickheads, but none of them more so than Draco. He was a smarmy, stuffy bloke, who’d always looked as though he wouldn’t have lived more than a decade if it weren’t for modern medicine. He was bigoted and prejudiced, and given the legal opportunity, Harry wouldn’t hesitate to throw him from this very terrace. 

“Potter,” Draco sneered. “I’m surprised to see you up here. I thought you couldn’t resist getting the crowds to swoon at you.”

“Well, we can’t all be as reclusive as you.”

Draco frowned. “Just because I’m not on the cover of every teen magazine—”

“That only happened _twice!_ ” 

“And how many articles? How many gossip columns?”

Harry crossed his arms. “Are you jealous or something, Draco?”

“Not jealous. Pitying.”

Harry wondered how much trouble he would be in if he punched Draco. When they were fourteen, he pushed Draco into a chocolate fountain at a YoungMinds charity party. Remus and Sirius hadn’t let him try out for his school’s football team as punishment. 

(“Don’t you think you’re being a bit extreme, Remus, love?” Sirius had said.)

(Remus slapped a newspaper onto the table in response. On the front page was a picture of Draco lying in the fountain, with the headline, “ _Carrying On the Family Feud? Harry Potter Sends Draco Malfoy on a Sweet Sweep Off His Feet._ ”)

Harry opened his mouth to retort — probably about being the media’s favourite, or about Draco looking like a member of the Addams family — when a sharp crack rang through the air, punctuated by screams. At first, Harry thought the sound was fireworks being set off, then realized they were gunshots. He dove for the ground, grabbing Draco by the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket, and pulling him with him. They were huddled on the ground, behind a large planter, just out of sight of the door. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice from downstairs bellowed. “If you cooperate, there is no need to be alarmed!”


	2. Constantly Surrounded By Peasants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's rewind, and change it up a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you, the mind of the unparalleled Draco Malfoy! 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of alcohol/intoxication, slight internalized homophobia, slight implied homophobia, mention of guns.

**DRACO**

Draco Malfoy woke to the dim afternoon sunlight streaming through his curtains. He sat up, stretched, and walked over to his mirror. 

Over breakfast that morning, his mother told him he had terrible bags under his eyes, and should get some rest so that they would be gone before their outing that evening. 

Draco couldn’t care less about the bags under his eyes, but he thought he could do with a nap. He had been awake until three-thirty last night, trying to finish the twelfth novel on his list of twenty-five summer reading books. (It was _A Catcher in the Rye_. He found it underwhelming.)

He looked at the time. There were still a few hours to go until they had to leave for the gala that evening. He imagined his mother was already at her makeup table, carefully selecting shades of eyeshadow and blush. 

He didn’t have to imagine where his father was. Draco could hear him shouting from the floor below. Probably at some miserable old soul who’d be out on his backside by the end of the week. 

But, then, that was what you got for hiring outside of the family, wasn’t it?

Thinking of the family business made Draco’s throat constrict. He’d known, for as long as he’d been capable of intelligent thought, that Malfoy Enterprises was a kingdom, and he would one day claim the throne. He could remember being five years old, stumbling alongside his father at the office, and being struck by the respect his family commanded. 

Malfoy Enterprises was one of the most influential businesses in Britain. You could make a football team of the politicians his father had wrapped around his finger. They had been around for over two centuries, and had governed whatever sectors they could with an iron fist. 

Draco deeply admired the way his father (and his Aunt Bellatrix, for that matter) could cause such terror in anyone who dared oppose them. 

That was, except for Marauders Incorporated. 

Aunt Bellatrix had confessed to Draco, one Christmas after a couple eggnogs too many, that she thought the only reason Marauders Incorporated was so successful was because Sirius Black knew how the enemy operated. 

And while Draco firmly believed Malfoy Enterprises would never sink so low as to dip their fingers into the _entertainment_ industry, Marauders Incorporated kept locking horns with them, over political influence or property. They were ruining generations of hard-earned family prosperity. 

He hated them. 

Above all else, he hated Harry Potter, the offspring of the despised company. 

Draco hated his flawless, tousled hair, his million-dollar smile, his timid-yet-charismatic demeanour. He wanted nothing more than to shatter Potter’s perfect athletic legs, or bash his head in so hard that he damaged that impeccable, clever mind. 

Draco hated Potter because, if he didn’t, he might actually like him. 

He took the next novel from the stack on his desk and went outside, across the street to the cemetery. 

In primary school, a little girl had told Draco that his family must be devils, because they looked so creepy and lived next to dead people. He went home crying that afternoon, so his father bought the girl’s apartment building and had her family evicted. 

Draco liked the cemetery, though. While it didn’t belong to his family, it was old and well-kept, with several willow trees and a duck pond in the middle. He took the long way around, passing by the pond that never seemed to have any ducks, and a small hill peppered with crumbling gravestones. 

When he got to the opposite end of the pond, he walked over to the nearest willow tree and sat beneath it. Beside him was his favourite gravestone — _Hier Lyde Begraven, Almeric Sawbridge, 1602-1699, Heroe of the Wye Ryver_. He wondered what the Wye River was and how Almeric was the hero of it, but never found any mention of either. 

He read in the shade of the tree until he spotted the family’s limousine being brought around to the front of the house, and he knew they’d be leaving soon. He walked back to the inside. 

“You’d best be hurrying, Draco!” the housekeeper called after him as he walked through the foyer. “Your father’s in a dreadful mood, I’d dare not cross him!”

Draco never liked how she spoke to the family as though they were her equals. But, she must be good for something, because her mother refused to have her sacked. Maybe she was a distant relation. 

He dressed alone in his room. A tuxedo had been laid out for him the night before. Sensible black, with gold-and-green buttons, and a green striped tie. Bending down to look in the mirror on his dresser, he straightened his tie and styled his hair with old-fashioned pomade. Before leaving, he put on a bit of cologne, to mask the odour of the pomade. 

Draco walked down the hall to find his parents waiting in the foyer. His mother looked beautiful. She always did. His father looked . . . a bit eccentric, really. With his long, blond hair, Draco thought he could be one of the thugs in _Die Hard_. 

He stopped in front of his parents. His mother smiled, and said, “You look lovely, Draco. Doesn’t he, Lucius, dear?”

Lucius didn’t say anything. He clasped his hands together behind his back and began to walk around Draco in a slow circle. He tugged the tail of his tuxedo jacket into place, then said, “Remember, you’re representing the future of our family and this business tonight. Show a little decorum.” He stepped back towards his wife, paused, and added, “We don’t need you looking like a mud wrestler in any more newspapers.”

Draco rolled his eyes. The chocolate fountain incident was over three years ago. Besides, it’s not like it was his fault Potter couldn’t take a joke. 

The ride to the gala was silent, as most of their journeys were. He supposed that, after twenty years of marriage, his parents didn’t have much to say to each other. And he didn’t dare break the silence. 

They arrived at the gala, and split up almost immediately. Since Draco was a child, they’d had the same game plan. His father collected every businessman he could find (barring Sirius Black and Remus Lupin) and went to smoke cigars in a parlour somewhere. His mother chatted up the women, got the gossip, anything that could be used as leverage. Draco’s job was simple. He had to find some cameras, look dashing in front of them, and dance with someone’s daughter every so often. 

In spite of his easy task, Draco hadn’t followed through on his job in ages. Perhaps, if he were feeling particularly narcissistic, he might go looking for a photographer. But most evenings, now, he found the quietest place possible and stayed there. 

He hated himself for hiding like that. He knew he was born into a life of luxury. There were enough stories going around about the British families that could barely afford to eat, and Draco felt pathetic for not feeling up to smiling and dancing in a literal ballroom. 

He thought of Potter, how effortlessly he did it all. His happy (albeit makeshift) family, the press worshipping the ground he stood on like he was in the royal family or The Beatles. 

_If only they knew him_ , Draco thought. 

But, then, he realized there wasn’t much about Potter _to_ hate, except for that very fact. 

Draco looked around. Sometimes these events had a locked parlour or a private room to hide in. He spotted the tall French doors on the indoor balcony, and decided some fresh air may do him well. At the bottom of the stairs, a young man stood alone with his drink. He looked Draco up and down, then looked away. 

He felt his cheeks grow warm, and hurried away, up the stairs. The man had been startlingly handsome. What was he staring at him for?

Draco knew he fancied boys. He’d known for a while. He only wished that he could _do something_ with a boy every once in a while. 

He found an empty terrace, and closed the doors behind him. Leaning on the railing, he took a shaky breath, and tried to push aside the feeling that he wasn’t enough. 

A sharp laugh from inside pierced the air, and Draco thought about whoever was laughing instead. It was a terrible laugh. Eardrum-shattering. Babies would cry at that laugh. He imagined what that woman looked like. Probably short and squat, in some over-the-top frock and holding a glass full to the brim with champagne. 

From behind him, Draco heard the creak of hinges. He turned to see none other than Harry Potter stood by the door. Fantastic. This would improve his mood for sure. 

Potter just stood there, like a fumbling idiot. Something inside of Draco felt warm and fuzzy over that. Even though Potter was supposedly quite sharp, Draco knew he was smarter than him. 

“Potter,” Draco sneered. “I’m surprised to see you up here.”

They exchanged insults for a while, and eventually Draco had him searching for a clever comeback, his mouth snapping open and shut like a fish. Not so sharp now, hey, Potter?

Then, before he could respond, there was a loud noise from downstairs, like dozens of small explosions. They were followed by screams. An impromptu firework show, perhaps?

Without warning, Potter lunged at Draco, sending them both flying to the ground. Just as he was about to tell him off, a voice from below shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen! If you cooperate, there is no need to be alarmed!”


	3. Sure Are A Lot Of Stars Out Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco face imminent danger and maybe even death on the balcony -- together. So, they're both pretty much in hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a day early, I know, but I was too excited to wait for tomorrow. 
> 
> Possible trigger warnings: Life threatening situation, mentions of death/murder/violence.

**HARRY**

Harry was going to die. 

He was going to die sprawled on top of Draco Malfoy. 

What would his godfathers think? He wondered briefly if Remus and Sirius were still alive, or if they were the gunmen’s first victims. 

Draco moved to push him off, but Harry held them both in place. 

“ _Don’t. Move_ ,” he hissed. 

Draco sighed dramatically and cursed under his breath, but kept still. Harry wondered if Draco could tell he was trembling. Then he wondered if Draco was trembling as well. There were moments in a person’s life when they couldn’t bring themselves to care about what others were thinking of them in that instant. When he shattered his elbow during a match at school in second year, he snivelled all the way to the Hospital Wing. And right then, trapped up on the terrace, Harry decided to stop caring that he was showing a sign of weakness in front of his sworn enemy. 

Then that moment ended. Several minutes had passed, and there were no noises from below, or any sign that the police were coming to the rescue. So Harry stood up, straightened his jacket, brushed the dirt from his knees, and said, “Right.”

Draco, still lying on the ground, just stared up at him. He watched as Harry took hold of a large stone planter, and lifted it in front of the door. In a way, Harry wanted him to watch — the planter was bloody heavy, and that prat could do with a reminder that he was athletically superior. 

“Are you going to wait for a knight in shining armour to come get you, or are you actually going to do something for yourself for once?” Harry asked. 

Draco scowled and got to his feet. “What do you know about doing things for yourself? Last time I checked, your family were billionaires too.”

Harry ignored him, which only seemed to make him more ticked off. His pasty skin developed a hint of colour, and he began to tap his foot. 

“That was a stupid idea, you know,” Draco said. “Moving the planter. If you dropped it, we could have been found. Or worse. Killed.”

He was beginning to sound like Hermione. Was this how the distinguished Draco Malfoy behaved in a crisis?

“I didn’t drop it, did I?” Harry retorted. 

“You didn’t know you wouldn’t.”

“I’m pretty familiar with my own strength, thanks.”

Draco took a step closer to him. “This reckless behaviour is exactly what’s going to get you into trouble, Potter. Your godfathers’ influence and money won’t mean a fucking thing when you end up dead.”

A series of thoughts went through Harry’s mind like a bullet train. His parents, murdered a couple years into adulthood, lying on the floor of their home. Peter Pettigrew, found dead in his jail cell ten years after the terrible deed. Sirius and Remus . . . for all he knew, they were killed, too. 

“Don’t pretend you care,” Harry said, before he could stop himself. His voice was heavy with distress. 

Draco appeared surprised at his reaction. Harry turned his back to him. For the second time in a few minutes, he decided that ignoring him would be the better option. 

Harry walked to the railing. He leaned over the edge, peering down at the perfectly trimmed lawn. He didn’t see any suspicious cars in the parking lot. The shooters must have stopped out front, on the opposite side of the building. 

He took hold of the rail and swung one foot onto it. 

“Potter — Potter, what on Earth are you doing?”

‘Just ignore him,’ Harry thought. 

He brought the other foot up, and was now crouching on the rail.

“Have you gone mad?”

“I can jump down,” Harry said. Damn. So much for having a strong-willed mind. “It’s not that far.”

“Oh, he can jump down. Perfect.” Draco’s tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Are you blind, as well as moronic? You’d break every bone in your body. You’re an imbecile, Potter! Get off of there!”

Harry didn’t listen. He drew himself up to full height, so that he could tuck and roll before crashing into the grass. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” Draco muttered from behind him. 

Harry brought his arms together, as if he were diving into a swimming pool, but at the last second lost his footing. The world seemed to move in slow motion as his feet came out from under him, and —

— he pulled back, and brought down hard onto the terrace floor. This time, Draco was the one sprawled on top of him. 

He looked up, into Draco’s face. “You saved me,” he said. 

“Of course I did! Do you know why? Because you were going to fall, and bash your thick skull in, and I’d get the blame. Word gets out I was up here with you, and next thing you know The Sun is publishing articles about how I murdered you as a business strategy! And you’d be made into a bloody martyr, and I’d go mad having to listen to everyone go on about ‘Poor Ickle Potter’ and his untimely demise, you absolute idiot!”

Harry hardly even registered what he was saying. He just kept staring at Draco, and then repeated, “I can’t believe you saved me.”

Draco rolled his eyes, growled in frustration, then climbed off of Harry. 

“We’re dead now. There’s not a chance those gunmen didn’t hear _that_. When my father—”

He was cut off by the wail of sirens. Harry thought that was the most beautiful sound in the world. An artillery of emergency vehicles turned onto the street. 

Harry decided a very generous donation was in order for the territorial police service. 

**DRACO**

Draco sat in the back of an ambulance. There was an ugly, grey blanket draped over his shoulders. For shock, the paramedic had said. He knew he didn’t need a blanket. Or medical attention. Someone was just looking for their fifteen minutes of fame, wanting to claim they saved the life of the Malfoy boy. 

In the ambulance parked alongside his, Potter was being treated for a scraped arm. Again, complete bollocks. Draco had given him many injuries over the years, some much more serious than this, and none of them required medical attention. 

They were some of the last people out of the building. Once the shooters had been arrested, and the ballroom evacuated, some nob-headed policeman noticed them on the terrace, and sent an officer to escort them down. 

He hadn’t been able to find his parents in the chaos. Neither had Potter. But he wasn’t worried. If something had happened to them, these fame-hungry paramedics wouldn’t be so cheerful. 

“HARRY JAMES POTTER!” someone bellowed. Draco looked up, and saw Sirius Black and Remus Lupin bolting towards Harry. When they got to him, they both enveloped him in a massive hug. 

Sirius Black kept saying, “Oh, my darling boy. My most precious boy.”

Lupin appeared to be having a fit, and was going on about how, “We didn’t know where you were . . . so worried . . . what would Lily and James have thought . . . I’d never forgive myself . . .”

Draco began to feel as though he should stop snooping on what was clearly an emotional family moment. He turned his back to them, just as his own parents approached the ambulance. 

His mother hugged him, gracefully. There were no words relaying her worry, but he knew, from her nonverbal cues, that she was relieved to see him alive. 

His father only said, “They told us you would be here.” Then, “What do you have a blanket for? Were you injured?”

Draco knew Lucius wasn’t concerned. He only wanted to know if and who he should be suing. 

“It’s just procedure. I’m alright.”

Narcissa smiled. “And I suppose you are tired, as well.” She turned to Lucius. “We should go home now, dear, and let him rest.”

Draco didn’t think he would ever be able to close his eyes again. Every time he did, he felt his stomach flip, his heart pound. He saw Potter slipping on the railing. He relived the dread of knowing he would have to act quickly, because there was a life at stake. What he needed was amnesia, not sleep. 

Nevertheless, he got up, shrugging off the blanket, and let his mother lead him to the limousine.


	4. Nothing Says "Bromance" Like Shared Trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know you've hit rock bottom when you're texting your arch-nemesis at 2 a.m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sense a shift in the fabric of their universe . . . 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mentions of trauma, mentions of death/violence/weapons, mentions of mental illness, poor handling of mental illness, mention of medication

**HARRY**

Harry heard a voice. 

Well, he didn’t _hear_ a voice. He had no idea how the voice was supposed to sound, but he heard words spoken in an ambiguous tone. 

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”

Someone was crying. He wasn’t sure who. 

An innate sense of comfort tugged at his heartstrings, even though fear seemed to be dripping in the atmosphere. He was home. No. His home was in the flat, with Remus and Sirius. Harry was . . . somewhere else. Somewhere familiar. 

He heard screams. A man’s screams, a woman’s screams. Then another unknown voice, this one distinctly female, said, “Harry, you are _so_ loved.”

The woman’s words became gunshots. It was terrifying — as if she were coughing up the bullets. With the blasts came a picture. What had been a black void opened up into a corporeal world. A strange world. Harry couldn’t see any walls, only beige space that seemed to go on and on forever. The floor was black marble, so clean it was as reflective as a mirror. 

He turned around, and screamed. Two men were lying on the floor. His godfathers . . . Remus was on his back, blood pouring from the bulletwound in his chest, and disappearing into the dark floors. On top of him was Sirius, who was lying in a way that suggested he was trying to shake Remus awake when he was shot in the back. His cheeks were still wet with tears. 

“No!” Harry yelled. He tried to run over to them, but his feet wouldn’t budge. He flailed his arms desperately. “No, Padfoot, Moony! Please be alright! Please!”

“Harry?”

He sat up, drenched in sweat, the tail end of another scream escaping his throat. He was safe, in his own bed, back in the flat. Sirius was gripping him by the shoulders, and Remus was already mopping his forehead with a cool towel. 

A week had passed since the gala. Harry was plagued by nightmares every time he slept. This was the third time his godfathers had woken to his shouts. 

After the last nightmare, they took him to a doctor, who sent him to a therapist, who talked to them about PTSD and how it affects teenagers. She gave Harry something to help him sleep, and a telephone number for if he wanted more sessions. 

Harry took the pills, and felt like a zombie the next day. He decided not to take them that evening, to let all zombie-like feelings get out of his system. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea, and perhaps the thought of nightmares was daunting, but Harry didn’t care. 

It was all too much. 

He had the same nightmare the next night, only, when he saw the bodies of his family on the ground, a hand wrapped around his mouth and nose. Gasping for breath, he jolted awake in bed. 

Everything was scarier after a nightmare. The shadows in the corner were demons, partly invisible to the human eye. The restless city outside was full of murderers and thieves. 

Harry didn’t want to deal with the fear on his own. But he didn’t want his godfathers to know he hadn’t taken the medication. So he did the only thing that made sense, in that moment. He got his phone, opened Instagram, and messaged Draco Malfoy. 

Only after he pressed send — a simple, ‘ **you awake?** ’ — did he realize how stupid he was. He despised Draco. So what if he saved his life? Oh, god, was Harry endetted to him now? He shivered at the thought. 

Harry supposed it was because Draco was the only other person in the world who understood. He was stuck on the roof with him, and felt the same panic, the same trauma. 

To his surprise, Draco answered almost immediately, even though it was such an ungodly hour. 

**draco.malfoy: Eloquent as always, I see**

Of course the twat used capitals and punctuation in his texts. 

**DRACO**

In Draco’s mind, life was a field. The field was foggy. At the end of the field was a cliff. Everyone in the world was walking on this field together, towards the cliff. Nobody knew when they were going to fall off. Some started closer to the edge than others. People were constantly doing things that put them closer or farther away from the edge. 

Draco believed he was just a couple steps from falling off the metaphorical cliff. The only thing that kept him going this past week was coffee, the amount of refills double the hours he slept. 

There was too much to do. Personal reading, summer reading, galas, public appearances, his apprenticeship at Malfoy Enterprises. They had started as a welcome distraction. Anything to keep his mind off that night. 

His phone buzzed some time after two. Draco assumed it was spam mail, or Crabbe or Goyle telling him about how much beer they’d just had or a dead animal they’d poked with a stick. 

He was not expecting a message from Potter. 

**harryjpotter: you awake?**

**draco.malfoy: Eloquent as always, I see  
draco.malfoy: Clearly I’m awake. What are you doing up?**

**harryjpotter: cant sleep. keep thinking about the gala**

**draco.malfoy: The shooters? Or my astounding act of heroism?**

**harryjpotter: don’t flatter yourself  
harryjpotter: howve you been dealing with things?**

**draco.malfoy: I bury myself with work, as always**

**harryjpotter: that doesnt sound healthy**

**draco.malfoy: Like you care**

**harryjpotter: what kind of work?**

**draco.malfoy: What’s with the sudden interest in my life?  
draco.malfoy: I mean, I know I’m charming, genius, and handsome  
draco.malfoy: But we get stuck on a terrace together once, and suddenly we’re best friends?**

**harryjpotter: we get stuck on a terrace together once, and we can bond over shared trauma**

A few minutes passed. Draco didn’t reply, so Harry continued the conversation himself. He posed the previous question again.

**harryjpotter: what kind of work?**

**draco.malfoy: I’ve got a time-consuming combination of school reading and personal reading  
draco.malfoy: I just finished The Pickwick Papers**

**harryjpotter: early dickens. not a fan. feels like he hasn’t got the hang of it yet**

**draco.malfoy: I’m surprised you know who Dickens is  
draco.malfoy Especially since you’ve clearly never heard of capital letters**

**harryjpotter: ignoring that comment  
harryjpotter: remus is a literature nerd  
harryjpotter: he was reading a christmas carol as a bedtime story when i was 5**

Draco could imagine that. Potter’s unruly black hair wilder than usual, probably wearing a jumper or dungarees. (Or, knowing the Banished Black, a leather jacket tailored for toddlers). He imagined Remus Lupin, over a decade younger. Less grey hair. Fewer wrinkles, no doubt caused from stress. A man in his mid thirties simply shouldn’t have wrinkles at all. 

He thought about them, sometimes. What it would be like to have a new business and a baby to deal with, all while barely being done with puberty. Lupin and Black were only a few years older than Draco when they became surrogate-parents. 

**draco.malfoy: I’m honestly shocked he didn’t raise a more intellectual child**

**harryjpotter: clearly you’ve never read those teen mag articles you’re always mocking me over  
harryjpotter: i’m doing perfectly fine in school**

**draco.malfoy: ‘Fine’ never made anyone great**

**harryjpotter: you dont need to be top of your class to be great  
harryjpotter: not for the things i care about**

**draco.malfoy: And what’s that?  
draco.malfoy: Garbage collection? Waiting tables?**

**harryjpotter: for your information, im going to be a detective**

**draco.malfoy: How very Arthur Conan Doyle**

**harryjpotter: what’s your dream career, then?**

**draco.malfoy: “For your information”, I’m going to be the first CEO of M.E. to have a Doctorate of Medicine**

That was a lie. In Draco’s dreams, he wasn’t CEO of Malfoy Enterprises at all. Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone. Least of all his father. 

**harryjpotter: well, you’re probably going to get lots of time to practice it  
harryjpotter: i have a feeling your fathers going to pull a queen Elizabeth**

Draco laughed, because he knew it was true. Stubborn Lucius Malfoy, who would rather die at his desk than see the company fall into unsuitable hands. 

**draco.malfoy: That wouldn’t surprise me  
draco.malfoy: Doesn’t your family expect you to take over the business as well?**

**harryjpotter: nah  
harryjpotter: sirius says that he’d be happy as long as he can afford a luxurious retirement**

He laughed again, though not as hard. That family was set up for the next three generations’s retirements, let alone their own. 

**harryjpotter: do you ever wish you didnt have to run the family business?**

**draco.malfoy: Careful now  
draco.malfoy: One might assume we’re friends, with all these personal questions**


	5. Settees, Pubgate, and Fluoroquinolone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the lives of Harry and Draco, and how their lives now intertwine. Featuring Ron and Hermione!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all the hits! Hope you're enjoying the story!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of past trauma, mention of alcohol, mention of illness, Lucius Malfoy in general.

**HARRY**

“Those _fucking bastards!_ ”

Harry heard Sirius curse from the lounge, and didn’t so much as look up from his cereal. Remus set three cups of tea on the table, and called out the door, “Language, Sirius!”

Harry took a sip of tea and snorted into the cup. He didn’t know why Remus bothered with telling Sirius off for swearing, when he’d already dropped three f-bombs himself that morning. 

Sirius stormed into the kitchen, dramatically flinging his arms around Remus. He buried his head in the crook of his neck. 

“What’s happened?” Harry asked. 

“Lucius Malfoy and his inbred gang of chauvinists have their faces all over the news. They were photographed having lunch with Bertha Jorkins.” 

Harry furrowed his brow. “Bertha Jorkins? Isn’t she one of ours?”

Remus nodded. He unraveled Sirius’ arms, and guided him to his seat at the table, then went into the lounge to take a look at the television. 

“They’re clearly staged,” he called. “Bertha would _never_ have her hair styled like that.”

Bertha Jorkins was a politician from Manchester — one of the many who would take Marauders Incorporated's suggestions into serious consideration, in exchange for a sum of money or a favour. The photographs were a message from Malfoy Enterprises. A reminder that they were still there, like a bully who stole lunch money to keep up his reign of terror. 

Harry wasn’t particularly worried, though. These things happened every so often. He knew Remus and Sirius would get back at them by taking one of their politicians. Although, he was half-tempted to message Draco. Not just to pick a fight. Maybe not to pick a fight at all. 

He wondered what Draco was doing, right in that moment. What would it be like to live in that family? Sirius hadn’t even lasted two decades with them. Harry imagined the dark, sterile corridors and old-fashioned drawing rooms from the stories his godfather would tell. He tried, and failed, to picture Draco there as a child. 

Draco Malfoy was never a child. He was born pouting, with old-world ideas in his head and some work of great literature in his hands. 

Remus and Sirius ate their breakfast and left for work. 

“We may be late getting home tonight,” Remus said as he hugged Harry goodbye. “Malfoy Enterprises will have kicked up a big fuss at the office already.”

“That’s alright,” Harry said. “I was going to go out with Ron and Hermione, anyways.”

“Remus, come _on!_ ” Sirius stuck his head in the door. He was dressed for work, but his tie was hanging loose around his neck. “See you tonight, Harry. Try not to get kidnapped while you’re out.”

A standard Sirius-farewell. 

Remus smiled as he followed his husband out the door. “If you clean your room before you go, we’ll be sure to pay the ransom.”

“So, then, we just hear this splash. Like a swimming pool’s been emptied on the lawn or something. And Ginny and I run to the window, and Fred and George are in the fountain, with this poor man’s settee. And that’s why we’re not allowed back at the hotel.”

Harry and Ron were sitting cross-legged on the floor of Flourish and Blotts, in the narrow aisle between two bookshelves. They had come in to pick up a book Hermione ordered — Gormen something-or-other — but after she had spent thirty minutes poring over the Ancient History section, it became clear they weren’t leaving any time soon. 

Ron had been telling Harry about his family’s holiday to a small town in France. Most of the businesses ended up banning anyone with the surname “Weasley” for life. Harry thought it was a miracle they hadn’t been kicked out of the country. 

“I wish you could’ve come, though,” Ron said. “I mean, it wasn’t half bad, mostly because Perce was too busy with work to come, but ‘s just not the same without you. And Hermione.”

Harry was flattered, of course. (He loved the Weasleys. How Molly was the mother he never had, how they’d accepted him as one of their own from day one). But two weeks in rural France seemed horrendously dull. 

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said. 

“What’d you do while I was away?” Ron asked. 

Harry shot him a blank look. “You mean, apart from being held hostage at a gala?”

Ron’s ears turned pink. “Oh. Yeah. Er, sorry. I s’pose you don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry shook his head. They sat in awkward silence for a moment, then Ron said, “Bloody hell, Hermione’s taking forever, isn’t she?”

“You could go find her if you like,” Harry said, grinning smugly and waggling his eyebrows. The tension in the air dissipated. Ron and Hermione being a couple was still fairly new. They got together around the same time he and Ginny split up. 

Ron’s ears were nearly purple. But before he could answer, Hermione came around the corner herself, saying, “Go and find who?”

She had an armload of books. Ron scrambled to his feet to take them from her. She smiled at him. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Between them and his godfathers, life seemed to be an endless stream of braggart lovers. 

“I’m all done, here,” Hermione said. “They’ve got so many fascinating topics. Thank heavens I’ve been working this summer, or I’d never be able to afford them. You know, I don’t think they should charge half as much for books as they do. Knowledge is power, after all, not to mention the road to a better life.”

Ron’s stomach grumbled. 

“I’m starving,” he said, as they made their way to the checkout desk. “D’you want to go to a pub for lunch?”

“Ron!” Hermione scolded. “We can’t! Don’t you remember Leaky Cauldron-gate?”

Ah, yes. Pub-gate. Cauldron-gate. The time Harry was photographed holding a beer at the Leaky Cauldron, and was portrayed as a troubled, rebellious teen in the tabloids for a couple months. They’d had to hire a whole team of publicists in the end to make it all go away. And, since then, Harry avoided pubs at all costs. 

(It wasn’t even _his_ beer. He was just passing it to Sirius).

“We could go to Florean Fortescue’s?” Harry suggested. The weather was uncommonly warm, and ice cream seemed appealing. Especially after spending a half hour in a stuffy bookstore. 

They end up sitting outside, at a rickety table with wilting carnations in a vase. The streets were bustling beyond the fenced-off outdoor eating area, and Harry officially felt as though he was doing summer properly. 

He’d bought a large cone of Orange Marmalade ice cream. Hermione was eating her Earl Grey and Lavender ice cream with one hand and flipping through a new book with another. Her head rested on Ron’s shoulder. From inside, a football match was being broadcast, and they kept quiet in hopes of hearing some of it. 

Harry leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He felt the sun on his face, tasted the orange ice cream melting in his mouth, and listened for snippets of the Irish commentator’s lyrical voice. 

Then he sat up, opened his eyes, and caught a glimpse of a pale-blond head of hair. He looked closer. Draco Malfoy was walking towards them. Harry smirked. Draco was getting nearer, and they locked eyes. 

Harry heard Hermione sigh. 

“Hey, Malfoy!” Harry called. 

Draco stopped on the other side of the fence. He was holding a brown paper bag, and kept his free hand tucked in his pocket. He looked like he could be a member of the royal family, with all that poise and confidence. Harry wanted to shove him out of that cocksure stance. 

“Potter.”

“How’s Dickens treating you?”

“What?” Hermione muttered. Harry knew she had been expecting an insult. He decided to ignore her for a moment. 

“I’ve moved on to Austen, now, actually. _Sense and Sensibility_.”

Harry nodded. “Austen’s good,” he said. “Elegant.”

“A rousing endorsement.” Draco’s words were sarcastic, but they lacked the usual venom. “Was that another childhood bedtime story?”

“It was, actually.”

A gust of wind swept across the road. It blew a strand of Draco’s hair loose. He tucked it back into place. “And how goes the plan to become the world’s next Sherlock Holmes?” Draco asked. “Shall I buy you a deerstalker hat?”

Harry snorted. “Don’t come crawling to me when you’re needing legal assistance, if you’re gonna be such a smartass about it.”

And, it might have been a trick of the light, but Harry could have sworn he saw Draco smile. 

“I won’t get too worried, Potter,” he said, before he turned to leave.

Harry turned back to his friends, and nonchalantly licked his ice cream cone. Ron and Hermione stared at him, expecting an explanation, but Harry took a moment to enjoy their shocked expressions. 

Eventually, Ron said, “Am I hallucinating, or did Harry just have a civil conversation with Draco Malfoy?”

Harry fought back a sly grin. “So what if I was?”

“ _Draco Malfoy?_ ” Ron continued. Harry noticed Hermione seemed to be in a stunned silence. “We’ve hated the wanker since we were kids, Harry. His family’s no good—”

_He’s not his family_ , Harry wanted to say. But he didn’t. Because two civil conversations didn’t redeem all the terrible things the Blacks and Malfoys had done. 

“— and he’s a bully. How much d’you wanna bet he’s, like, racist, or homophobic or something?”

Harry doubted it. If Draco were homophobic, at least, he would have been giving him shit about Remus and Sirius for years. 

“We talked about novels. It’s not like he’ll be best man at my wedding.”

“I’m just saying, mate, it’s dangerous, getting in with his lot.”

Hermione sat up straight. “I think it could be beneficial.”

Ron scoffed, and she quickly added, “Don’t get me wrong — he’s still a prat. But the unification of the two businesses through your friendship could solve _so many_ of your issues. The media would love it. No more petty tricks and jibes.”

Ron looked as though she had just declared her undying support of witch burning and pineapple on pizza. 

“I really don’t think—” Harry began. 

“And how beneficial would it be if Marauders Incorporated collaborated with Malfoy Enterprises instead of being at each others’ throats all the time?”

Harry sighed. “Hermione, I really think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, here.”

Ron cleared his throat, which sounded remarkably similar to, “I should hope so.”

**DRACO**

A car was parked in front of the house when Draco arrived home. For a terrible moment, he thought his mother’s bridge friends had come round. Then, for another terrible moment, he thought perhaps his Great-Uncle Cygnus was visiting. 

Finally he realized that no members or friends of the Malfoy clan would ever drive a Toyota AYGO. It was probably just the family doctor. He couldn’t think of any other reason the mysterious guest in such a cheap car hadn’t used the tradesman entrance.

His Aunt Bellatrix had a rather unfortunate case of pneumonia. Her condition was amusing for Draco, though. He seized every opportunity to mess with his tyrannical aunt, who was delusional with the fever. 

Plus, he could sit in on the doctor’s visits, if he wanted. 

He went to put his things in his bedroom and wash his hands before going to the far end of the house, where Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus had their own little apartment. (With separate bedrooms). The doctor, a plump, bald man with black-rimmed John Lennon glasses, was listening to Bellatrix’s chest with a stethoscope. His aunt was dead to the world, her dark curls fanned wildly around her head. 

The doctor looked up when he stepped into the room. 

“Hello, young Mr. Malfoy,” he said with a smile. Both he and the smile were a sharp contrast from the stern house and the people inside it. “How are we today?”

Draco shrugged, and sat at the foot of the bed. “Has the purulent material subsided yet?” he asked.

“The antibiotics are working,” the doctor replied. “See, the thing about community-acquired pneumonia . . .”

Draco would be sad to see the doctor go. He’d learnt so much about pneumonia while his aunt has been sick — that it was an infection of the air sacs of the lungs, causing them to fill with puss. Perhaps he should expose his family to more viruses so he could find out more about them. 

He listened to the doctor’s explanation of fluoroquinolones and antibiotic resistance while he performed the check-up. Then he packed up his bag, reminding the barely-conscious Bellatrix to take her medicine. Draco escorted him to the door, and the doctor promised to return tomorrow, and tell him all about Osteopathic Manipulative Treatment. Part of Draco wanted to ask the doctor if he could just leave with him. 

On his way back to his bedroom, Draco stopped in the parlour. Above the fireplace, in the spot of honour, hung the Black family tapestry. When he was younger, he would stand on an ottoman and traced the generations back with his fingers. (If his mother knew, she’d faint dead away). (If his _Aunt Bellatrix_ knew, she’d skin him alive). 

He would laugh at his great-grandmother, Irma, looked ridiculous in her pointed hat. He’d run his fingertips over his Great-Aunt Walburga, then her son Regulus, who had died on some family business. Nobody ever spoke of him. Draco assumed it was because the “business” was on the family’s illicit side of affairs. Beside Regulus was the burnt spot that had been Sirius Black. 

Burn marks peppered the tapestry. There were far more than his family would care to admit — Andromedea, who married some penniless bloke, Phineas, who’d been too fond of the lower class, Alphard, who made the foolish mistake of not disinheriting Sirius. Sometimes, Draco wanted to tear the stupid thing off the wall and burn it all. He would never admit it, not even to himself, but he lived in fear of joining the outcasts of the Malfoy-Black clan. 

He climbed off of the ottoman, and headed for his room. 

“Master Draco?”

He turned to see the housekeeper standing at the end of the corridor. 

“Your father wishes to speak with you.”

A small group of Malfoy Enterprises employees had congregated in Lucius’ office. Draco recognized them all. The Carrow siblings, and Fenrir Greyback. His father smiled coldly when he entered the office, and the other three stood up. A ridiculous attempt at respect, or arse-kissing, really. He never understood the point of standing when a respectable person entered the room. 

“Draco, you know my associates,” Lucius said. 

“I do.”

“Good. I’d like you to sit in on this meeting. It’s about time you learnt how things are done at the top in this company. We can’t have you being an intern forever, can we?”

The others laughed stiffly, as though they weren’t sure if they were allowed to. Draco didn’t reply. He took a seat in the chair that was shoved at him by Greyback, crossed his legs, and looked expectantly at his father. 

“You’re a very lucky boy, Draco,” Lucius began, “to have grown up surrounded by the luxury and privilege your mother and I have provided. There are many who are not so fortunate. Even when I was a lad, I never once suspected I would hold as much power as I do today. Although, I hoped for it. Oh, did I hope for it. I am eternally grateful to your mother and her family, for opening so many doors to me. Without the authority of the Black family, this very business would have withered away a decade ago.

“Leading this business, this clan, is no easy task. Every day, I fight for my place. You will soon know this, Draco. You will understand what it means to be a man with power.”

Draco doubted most of what his father said. Maybe it was hard at first, but after a strategic marriage and the enforcement of fear in his wake, there wasn’t much to trouble Lucius. If he was to go on holiday, all the power he had before leaving would be there when he came back. 

His father continued the speech. “If you will pardon my treasonous opinion, I believe we are more important than the royal family themselves. Figureheads, Draco. That’s all they are now. Something to keep around for old times’ sake. Us, we are the ones who see to progress, to the improvement of our country. This requires intelligence, passion, and above all, dedication.”

Lucius folded his hands on the desk, and stared Draco down. “You are forever bound to this company. Only you can see to its success when my time has come. You must dedicate your life to the work. All other interests must be completely disregarded. When you stand where I once stood, you will live and breathe Malfoy Enterprises, and nothing else.”

Then he turned to his employees. 

“Let’s get to it, shall we? I’d like to start by discussing Marauders Incorporated. I’ve had an idea, gentlemen, and they shall not be a thorn in our side for much longer.”


	6. Sheltered White Boy + 6 Drinks = Chaos (And A Good Laugh)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's had enough of hiding from his fears. Draco's had enough of his so-called legacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gearing up for my favourite part of the story, now!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of trauma, mention of alcohol, intoxicated character/underage drinking, low-key breakdown, Lucius Malfoy's shitty parenting

**HARRY**

“Absolutely not.”

“ _Harry_.”

“I’ve only just been to one of your bloody social functions. Are you businessmen, or noblewomen at the turn of the century, throwing tea parties twice a week?”

Remus seemed tired, both of this conversation and in general, as he said, “The last gala was over three weeks ago.”

At the same time, Sirius said, “Well, I would look lovely in a corset.”

“And don’t you remember what happened at the last gala?”

Sirius put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Of course we do,” he said. “But we’ve already turned down two events since then, and we can’t afford to lose any more of our people, especially now that Bertha’s gone. And you’re forgetting, Harry, that we were at that gala too. We understand your fear.”

In a solemn tone, Remus added, “When the guns went off and we couldn’t see you . . . We know how it felt, why you don’t want to go back. But you can’t just hide in the flat forever. I promise we’ll look after you, this evening.”

“It’s not even a gala,” Sirius continued. “Just a private party for the mayor of London’s birthday. Less than eighty people.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. For a couple of badass young parents, Remus and Sirius subjected Harry to far too many profound and heartfelt discussions. And, he doubted the words, “we understand your fear,” would help him overcome any of this. 

But they were making a good point about not being able to hide in the flat forever. 

“Fine,” Harry said. “I’ll go, but only if I don’t have to wear a tuxedo.”

In perfect unison, Remus and Sirius said, “Hear, hear.”

Harry searched the room, desperately, for anyone under the age of thirty-five. 

Surely, there had to be _somebody_. Didn’t the mayor have children, or nieces and nephews?

The assembly of partygoers was embarrassingly caucasian, and embarrassingly somber for, well, partygoers. Harry wanted to cringe, just being there. Once this was over, he’d have to go volunteer at a homeless shelter, or help build wells in Guinea just to clear his conscience. 

The party was noticeably different from the gala earlier in the month. This time around, the event was being held in what looked less like the location of every wedding reception ever, and more like the library in _Downton Abbey_. A string quartet played gentle music, but nobody danced. All the lights were all on. The bar wasn’t crowded. 

He wished he’d brought Ron and Hermione with him. They’d have had fun, watching Hermione tear apart members of the Conservative party, sneaking off to poke around in the other rooms. He could probably still do that, on his own . . . 

“Oh, look, it’s Hercule Poirot.”

Harry turned to see Draco Malfoy, looking prim and proper in a navy blue suit. He realized, then, he’d only ever seen Draco wearing something other than a suit a handful of times. What would he look like in a pair of joggers?

Harry smirked, or at least tried to, and retorted, “Fancy meeting you here, Doctor McCoy.”

They had texted almost every day since that night after the gala, although they hadn’t seen each other in person in that time. Draco took a sip of a brown liquid that Harry doubted was just iced tea. How did he get his hands on a real drink? (Well, they _were_ in England).

The two fell into place, leaning against the wall, side-by-side. Any passerby might have assumed they were friends. Harry asked how the pursuit of the PhD had been going, and Draco told him about fluoro-something-or-other. Then Draco asked Harry if he watched _Star Trek_ , and they talked about their favourite generations. 

Draco went to get another not-iced-tea. Harry knew it wasn’t wise to get wasted at Mayor Fudge’s birthday, but who was he to tell Draco to stop? It wasn’t like he cared. 

When he returned, Harry pointed out a ludicrously tall woman across the room, and said, “How’d you think she got to be so big? I reckon her parents were American basketball players, who had a whole family of massive children, and decided to settle in the UK.”

Draco frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

“People-watching,” Harry replied. Sirius had created the game, when Harry was younger and would get bored rather quickly at these sorts of things. The idea was to point out anyone in the room, and see who could come up with a crazier backstory. 

Draco nodded, as though Harry had just unveiled the answer to all of life’s most pressing questions, and said, “I think she’s half-giant. Her mother was an adventurer, who encountered the last remaining tribe of giants, and she fell in love with one particularly kind-hearted male. Resulting in the lovely lady we see before us”

Harry scrunched up his brow. “How would that even work? _Gross_.”

He shrugged. “Love is love.”

They continued the game, pointing out the squat, pink-faced man who had surely been a moleman plotting underworld domination up until recently, and the bloke who looked like he was wearing an old-fashioned Dracula costume, who had clearly been on his way to a fancy dress party when he got terribly lost. 

At some point during their game, Draco’s drink was replaced with what Harry recognized as champagne. Before they knew it, they were called in to a large dining room to eat. He noticed that Draco didn’t take his drink with him to his seat next to Lucius and Narcissa. 

Harry was lucky enough to be sitting next to Remus and Sirius. They made fun of the food and argued over which Beatles album was the best. 

(“ _Hard Day’s Night_ is easily my favourite.”)

(“Oh, Harry, your mother would be so mortified to hear you say that.”)

Sirius was plotting to hire a DJ to sneak into the party and liven things up when Mayor Fudge stood, and asked the gentlemen to join him for drinks and cigars in the next room. The ladies followed Mrs. Fudge back into the library. 

Harry and Draco were left lingering, trapped in the metaphorical void between two archaic worlds. Draco took a half-empty glass of wine from the table, downed it like a shot, and said, “Shall we?”

“You’re disgusting!” Harry exclaimed. “Just picking up drinks from the table! You don’t know where it’s been.”

“Oh, calm down, Potter, this is my mother’s glass.” Harry pretended not to notice the slight slur to his words, or how his eyes wouldn’t focus on him. Or, at least, he pretended not to care. “ ‘Sides, I’m not disgusting. I’m resourceful.”

Harry looked ready to slap him across the face. If Draco realized this, he didn’t care. 

“I repeat my pre . . . my prev . . . my last question. Shall we?”

“Shall we parade around your father with you drunk off your arse, or shall we join the women for gossip and backhanded compliments?”

Harry could have sworn he heard Draco groan. 

“How thick-headed are you? I _meant_ , let’s go poke ‘round the place. There’s bound to be something interesting here.” 

The offer was enticing. The building was probably full of century-old architecture, stocked libraries, and priceless artworks. He was willing to bet there were spooky attics and basements, too. 

In a rare display of courtesy, Draco walked to the door and held it open for Harry. 

“If we get caught, I’m saying you kidnapped me,” Harry said. 

“Oh, lighten up.” He scowled at Harry as they walked down the dimly-lit, wood-paneled corridor. “I promise, if we’re caught, I’ll confess to whatever you like. Anything to keep up your sparkling reputation.”

“Why am I even here?” Harry said, more to himself than to Draco. 

His scowl turned into a sly smile. 

“ ‘Cause I’m charming like that,” he said. “And you’re not one to turn down an a’venture.”

Draco stumbled down the hallway. Why had he chosen tonight to drink? This poor excuse for a party may have been dull, but they’d gotten through worse without being two sheets to the wind. Maybe it was trauma — the need to forget about the gunmen. 

Harry’s mind created a long list of possible reasons, then he realized he could just ask. 

Draco stopped suddenly, opened the nearest door, stuck his head inside, then closed it and kept walking. He peeked in the next room and stepped inside. Harry followed him. The room turned out to be a bedroom. He doubted anyone had slept there this century. Apart from the musty odour that filled the space, the decor and bedclothes were notably spotless and outdated. 

Harry turned on a lamp at the same time Draco let out a sharp breath, and he could swear he saw a cloud of dust swirl up around the room. He went to sit on the bed, then thought better of it, and sat on the armchair in the corner. 

Draco inspected an old photograph on the wall and giggled to himself. _Giggled_. Harry’s curiosity finally got the better of him and he asked, “Am I a boring companion, or has some other problem driven you to get this drunk?”

“I s’pose I am rather plastered,” Draco said, after a moment’s consideration. But he just shrugged, and continued, “This photo’s insane. ‘S, like, a family portrait in front of a _tornado_.”

“Draco . . . is something wrong?” Harry said. “With you, I mean? Is it the gala?”

His face darkened. He reminded Harry of a witch’s victim in old fairytales. Some poor beggar who had had the misfortune of being put under an enchantment, and became violent when met with the concern and reason of his friends. 

“You wouldn’t understand. Don’t try.” His voice was raw with affliction. “Perfect Potter, with his perfect, young, fun parents, and his perfect, crime-free business, and his perfect face and perfect personality. You have everything! Fucking Sherlock Holmes! Perfect fucking Potter. . .”

A couple of tears streaked down his cheeks. Draco’s face flushed, but Harry didn’t know if it was from the booze or embarrassment. He wiped the tears away and tore out of the room. Harry followed him, but the corridor had filled with partygoers, and he lost Draco in the crowd. 

Harry didn’t know why his heart was pounding. Or why Draco’s words had stung so much. 

_Perfect Potter . . ._

_You have everything . . ._

**DRACO**

“Oh, good heavens.”

Draco heard his mother’s breathless, shocked words, although they barely registered in his mind. He had an overwhelming urge to hide his face in her neck, like he would have done as a child. 

“Lucius — Lucius!” Narcissa hissed. She flailed her hand, trying to discreetly catch her husband’s attention. He noticed, and walked over to them, raising one wispy eyebrow. “He’s _drunk_.”

And, as if to demonstrate his inebriated state, Draco stumbled over his own feet. 

He couldn’t look at his father. Only stare at the floor, listening to his sharp intake of breath, and trying not to cry out when he took firm hold of his elbow. Flanked by his parents, he was marched out of the party. He distantly thought it was a pity he didn’t get the chance to say good-bye or thank-you to Mayor Fudge. 

Draco was practically thrown into the back seat of the family’s limousine, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for his father to start yelling or hitting him. 

But nothing came. 

When he finally had the courage to open his eyes, he saw his parents sitting close together on the other end of the car, talking in low voices. Probably wondering what to do about the family’s image. Or maybe they were working out which rehab facility they should send him to. 

At last, the scolding began when they arrived home. No sooner had the front door closed behind them than Lucius turned to his son, his face, for once in his life, flushed red instead of a washed-out pale colour. 

“Do you have _any idea—_ ”

“Yes, I bloody well do!” Draco shouted, cutting him off. “I’ve ruined your rep-reputation, haven’t I? ‘Tween getting wasted and leaving without wishing Fudge a happy birthday? D’you think I’m just some drunkard now? Were you gonna stop an’ wonder why I’ve done this?”

His parents were in a stunned silence. Draco had never talked back before. He took advantage of this, and continued, “You don’t give a damn about what happens to me, so long’s I’m here to take over when you’re gone. I don’t want this! I don’t wanna be married to my job, with all the shady underground shit and being caught so deep in a rivalry that I dunno know why ‘s happening in the first place! I don’t wanna be valued for producing another heir! I want to be a doctor. I want to do things for myself, and so things I’m good at, and help others. When’s the last time you helped anyone whose surname wasn’t ‘Black’ or ‘Malfoy’?”

Again, he was met by silence. 

“And another thing! I won’t be producing any heirs, because I’m gay as a fucking lark!”

“That’s enough!” Lucius roared. He trembled as he spoke. “I won’t tolerate any of these . . . these monstrosities. You will drop these notions at once, or you will get out of this house!”

A weight had been lifted off Draco’s chest, only for an elephant to be dropped back on. 

“Fine,” he said. The world was a little clearer, his body a little steadier. “Fine.”

He turned to the door, and left.


	7. Can I Take Shelter In Your Arms? No Homo Though.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does it mean when you look for safety in the arms of the person you hate the most?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/comfort Drarry is my favourite Drarry. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Drunk character, mention of alcohol, mention of vomiting, mention of death, general paranoid thinking, quasi-abusive situations.

**DRACO**

Once Draco made it to the end of the street, his self-confidence began to wither. By the time he made it to the end of the block, his knees were shaking. The severity of his actions hit him like a tidal wave. And he was trapped underwater, weak from fighting against the current, but he had to keep trying because his lungs were filling up and his vision was going hazy...

All the reasons why this was a terrible idea shot through his head in some kind of perilous domino-effect of disaster. He was on the streets. He was a teenager on the streets. He was a gay teenager, on the streets. He was a drunk, gay teenager, on the streets. 

It would only take some pedophile with a bit of upper body strength... 

No. No. He wouldn’t go thinking like that. Because then it would be like looking over your shoulder while walking in the woods — once you start, you can’t seem to stop. 

Instead, he thought of what to do next. 

Find somewhere to go, obviously. 

But where?

Almost everyone he trusted lived in the house he’d just left, or down the road. Could he even trust those people anymore? Even his school friends would just send him home. Perhaps there was some free-thinking relative who lived in the other end of the country, who would take him in. 

But Draco realized that any free-thinking relatives had been reduced to scorch marks on the family tapestry years ago. Andromeda... Phineas... Sirius...

_Sirius_. Of course. He could call Potter, and join their club of black sheep. (Pun totally intended). 

Perfect Potter, who pretended he wasn’t worried, who looked so dapper in his suit at the party, who had a warm, dry house to run off to. 

Draco fished his phone out of his pocket. 

**HARRY**

Harry had never done drugs. They didn’t really go with his golden-child image. That, and, the life of a junkie just didn’t seem all that appealing to him. 

But, somehow, he knew that the feeling of taking off a suit was better than any kind of acid/ecstasy/heroin trip. Even if he wasn’t being strangled by a tuxedo — just a sports jacket and necktie — he could feel every muscle of his body relax as he tugged them off. 

The night had been taxing, between the memories of the last gala around every corner and having to babysit a cranky, drunk Draco. He should be taking a massive amount of satisfaction in Draco’s poor behaviour. The pampered little brat finally snapped, and even threw a tantrum to prove it. 

But Harry wasn’t satisfied. He was worried. 

Worried about what made Draco feel that way. Worried about what Draco might do to himself next. Worried about how Lucius and Narcissa would be taking it. Worried about what it meant to be thinking about his arch nemesis like that. 

All in all, there was far too much worrying. 

Harry had spent the remainder of the party thinking up what he would do when he got home. One, take off the fucking suit. Done. Two, put on the comfiest pair of pyjamas he could find. Three, make popcorn. Four, eat said popcorn alone in his room, watching a film and not thinking about the outside world. 

He found a pair of pyjamas from last Christmas. The trousers were fleece, scarlet-coloured, and patterned with lions, and the accompanying grey shirt was soft from being worn so often. He tossed the pyjamas onto the bed, and was about to change into them when his phone rang. It was Draco. 

Harry didn’t want to answer. First, because Draco had no right to speak to him the way he had that evening. Also, there was something strange about talking to another bloke when you were in nothing but your pants. 

But maybe he was calling to apologize. Or he was dying of alcohol poisoning, and didn’t have the strength to shout for help. Harry didn’t want to add an accidental death to his ever-growing pile of concerns. 

He picked up the phone, and, with a coolness he usually reserved for the prat himself, said, “Draco.”

“Potter?”

Harry nearly recoiled, as if he had been slapped. He’d never heard Draco sound so... _afraid, so helpless_. Not even when they were stuck on the terrace together. 

Before he could reply, Draco continued, “Potter, I . . . oh, fuck, I need your help—”

Panic seeped into Harry’s own voice as he said, “What’s happened?”

Remus and Sirius looked as though Harry had just announced his undying passion for balloon animals, and his plan to start a promising career in balloon-animalry at the circus. They were cuddled up together in the lounge, watching _Notting Hill_ , and looked extremely annoyed at the thought of having to go out again. 

Sirius paused the film. “Why, exactly, do we have to go to a park all the way across town, at eleven in the evening?”

Harry sighed. This was going to sound mental. His godfathers were going to think he was delusional. He could see the straight jackets and padded walls already. 

“Because, er, I need to pick somebody up,” Harry said. “Somebody...somebody being Draco Malfoy.”

“Why on Earth—”

“I know, I know. He’s a git, and a Malfoy git, which is even worse, but we’ve — I don’t know — called a truce or something since the gala. And he’s been having a hard time, I’m sure he has, because he got completely wasted at the party tonight, and now he’s alone, at some park in the middle of the night, and he needs my help. I think ... I think I’m all he’s got.”

Remus and Sirius sat up straight, both their foreheads creased in serious thought. _Couples really do start to look alike after a while_ , Harry thought. Remus ran a hand over his goatee and said sternly, “Harry, why is Draco at a park in the middle of the night?”

Harry sighed again. He had been hoping to avoid that question. The answer would open far too many wounds. But he knew there was no point in lying, so he replied, “He’s had a row with his parents. They’ve thrown him out.”

He watched as Sirius’ face fell. His eyes clouded over, and Harry could only imagine what kind of shitshow he must have been remembering. Remus rubbed Sirius’ back, and said, “It’s alright, love.”

Sirius brushed him off, and stood up. “I’m sorry. I think I need to lie down.”

Remus and Harry watched him leave the room. Then Remus emphatically slapped the sofa, startling Harry out of his skin, and exclaimed, “Right!”

He ranted the whole time they got dressed to go out, jackets and trainers over their pyjamas. 

“I’ve had enough of that entire fucking family, turning away anyone who doesn’t fit the elitist, bigoted, inbred mold. Think of all the lives they’ve ruined ... You weren’t there, Harry, when they cast Sirius aside. He was desolate. Of course, he hated them all, but they left him, a scared sixteen year-old, to fend for himself. Sixteen. I still remember driving him to A&E with your dad, because his rat-bastard of a father had broken his nose.”

And he continued all the way to the park. About how Sirius still thinks about it, how they got his younger brother killed, how it shouldn’t even be legal for them to reproduce. Harry was surprised he hadn’t stopped to pick up adoption papers for Draco on the way. 

When they arrived at the park, Harry got out of the car on his own. He wasn’t too sure where Draco had gotten to. The park was large, and dark. Anyone could have come out of the shadows and grabbed him. 

Harry wandered past the duck pond, and the neat rows of rosebushes. What would he say when he found him? ‘Sorry?’ ‘Are you alright?’

Neither, apparently, because he spotted something in the distance, and, without thinking, shouted, “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Draco was lying on the side of the tall hill at the end of the path. Flat on his back, as though the ground were made of mattresses. For a moment, Harry thought Draco was dead, because he didn’t react, but then he rolled onto his side. 

Harry ran up the hill. It seemed, once he dropped to his knees beside Draco, that he was asleep. Harry shook him awake, and said, softer this time, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Draco smiled at him. He must have still been drunk.

“I was stargazing,” he replied simply. 

“Stargazing. Right. I was one second away from calling in the coroner.”

Draco sat up, rubbed sleepily at his eyes, and said, “What d’you mean?”

“Nothing. Come on, we’re taking you home.”

Harry helped him to his feet, then had to act as a human walking stick so that Draco didn’t drunkenly tumble down the hill. 

“Why’re you in your pyjamas?” Draco asked. 

Harry took on the voice he usually saved for speaking to small children. (That’s what Draco was, in a way. A scared child). “See, I was about to go to bed when you called.”

“Shit. I’ve ruined your evening, haven’t I?”

“Well we couldn’t just let you sleep on the hill for the rest of your life.”

“Sod off. I think I’d make a great park-dwelling hermit.”

“I think you mean ‘hobo’.”

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically, and tried to give Harry a shove. Only, he nearly face-planted on the grass, and had to grab onto him again. 

Remus was waiting by the car. Harry could see the Concerned Parent expression on his face from the gates. He hurried over to help Draco climb into the backseat, saying things like, “It’s alright now, Draco,” and, “We’ll get you back in the warm soon.”

As they drove down the road, Harry turned around in his seat, and handed Draco a bottle of water. “I want you to drink the whole thing by the time we get home.”

Draco finished the bottle before they pulled onto their street, and Harry handed him another as Remus parked the car. Harry noticed Sirius’ motorbike was missing from its usual spot. 

Remus held the doors as Harry lead Draco inside. He wondered whether it was the alcohol or the exhaustion that made him stumble around like a newborn foal. Once they got into the flat, Draco took a seat at the breakfast bar and finished his water while Remus put on a pot of coffee. 

Harry and Remus exchanged a look they both understood to mean, ‘How the hell did we end up looking after a drunken, perturbed Malfoy-spawn?’

Harry went to make up a bed on the sofa. When he returned to the kitchen, Draco was idly sipping at a steaming cup of coffee. Harry dumped a bundle of pyjamas onto the table. 

“You can change into that once you’re done,” he said. 

Draco smiled softly at him, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “You ought to be a nurse, Potter. I’ve never seen bedside manner like yours.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah. I’ll come and be your nurse, once you get that degree in medicine.”

“Together we shall rid the world of all disease.”

He’d never seen this side of Draco. The humour, minus the venom. It felt strange to be laughing _with_ him, instead of _at_ him. As if they were soldiers on opposite sides of a war, who found themselves at the same dinner party. 

But, that was what it was, really. 

Harry sat beside him. “If we get rid of disease, how’ll we find any work?”

Draco nodded serenely. “Good point, good point. P’rhaps that’s why they’ve not cured cancer yet.”

He raised an interesting point. Harry never stopped to think that the same mind games, the same lies and cover-ups, occurred in other fields of work. 

Draco finished his coffee, and Harry pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. As he stumbled away to change, he said, “I’m so tired, I think I’ll sleep ‘til Christmas.”

Harry curled up in the armchair and turned on a taped episode of _Game of Thrones_ while he waited for Draco to come back. He couldn’t focus much on the plot. (It was one of the episodes featuring that bloke who looked freakishly similar to the caretaker at his school). His mind kept wandering back to Draco. Draco in his house. Draco in the middle of some crisis. Draco—

Wearing his pyjamas. 

Something in his chest constricted as Draco came out of the bathroom, the same way it would after a vivid dream or a good scare. He looked . . . well, he looked normal. Less sickly, less Victorian, less royal-family-mixed-with-Bela-Lugosi. 

Draco gestured to the sofa. “Is that all for me?” he asked. 

Harry racked his brain for some smart-ass response, but all he could muster was, “Yeah, of course.”

Stupid. 

Draco got under the covers straight away. Harry switched off the TV, then the overhead lights and the lights in the kitchen. He left the lamp beside Draco’s impromptu bed on. A bowl lay beside the sofa. One of the old, metal ones that they reserved specifically for vomit, that smelt rather strongly of disinfectant from being cleaned so many times. Remus must have left it out, for tomorrow morning, just in case. 

Draco nestled into the blankets and pillows. Harry resisted the urge to, he didn’t even know, tuck him in, or pat his head or something. Because he looked so lost and defenceless, that was. 

“Draco ... can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s a bit invasive, but honestly I’m invested in this now. Er, what’s happened, exactly, with you and your parents? Why’d they throw you out?”

Draco glanced down at the blankets. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’ve already told you. We had an argument.”

“Yeah, but, you don’t kick your only child out over an argument. They don’t hurt you, do they? Because if they hurt you...”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, and a couple tears streamed down his cheeks. Harry realized he may have pried too much. 

“I’m, er, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“They don’t hurt me,” Draco interrupted. “But it was so much. All these standards and impossible goals, this mountain they ‘spect me to climb. It’s like, every time I step in that house, all the air gets sucked out of me, and I can’t breathe, and I can’t think for myself.” He was properly crying, then, tears clinging to his jaw. Harry passed him a tissue. “And I told them how I felt. Told them that that life’s a load of shit, and I want to do something important or — or go frollicking with other blokes like the useless queer that I am. And they told me to go.”

Harry’s heart just about stopped in his chest. How did he never catch on, to what sounded more and more like emotional abuse? How did he never even realize Draco was gay?

_Because he was forced miles-deep into the closet, you dolt._

And he didn’t really know what to say. Everything that came to mind seemed so stupid, so ordinary. He should have said something encouraging, shouldn’t he? But Draco may not have wanted to hear any optimistic crap ... Would it have be worse if he tried to get him to talk about it more?

Harry settled for resting his hand on Draco’s shoulder. He thought of Sirius, and realized that in a funny bit of fate, how he’d become a sort of sequel to his father. 

Then he said, “Draco, your family are a bunch of bigots, especially if they can’t see past all this stuff. And, I don’t know, maybe it’s better that you’re here. We want to help you. It’s okay. That, er, you’re not okay.”

Draco rolled onto his side, so they were looking at one another. He stared contemplatively at Harry for a moment, his cheeks still wet with tears. 

“That’s some sentimental shit, Potter.”

He laughed weakly, and Harry shoved him back into the sofa. Draco only rolled back over, and snuggled into his makeshift bed. 

“Thanks, though. This is very noble of you. Can’t be easy, bringing your sworn enemy into your home like this.”

Harry chuckled. “You know, I don’t really think we count as sworn enemies anymore.” He reached over and turned the lamp off. “Get some sleep, you bonehead.”

Harry stayed in the armchair, scrolling idly through his various social media profiles. He meant to go to bed once Draco stopped sniffling, but then he got lost in the ‘puppy’ tag on Instagram, and then he decided to wait up a little longer, just to make sure Draco didn’t choke on his own vomit. 

Before long, Harry had to fight to keep his eyes open, but he had to stay awake. For Draco. He got so tired that he didn’t notice when his screen dimmed, and eventually turned off. He didn’t notice when his eyes closed and didn’t open again. He didn’t notice when he fell asleep listening for the sound of Draco’s even breaths. 

**DRACO**

Pain blossomed behind Draco’s eyes like a despicable time-lapse of a flower opening its petals. He was sucked dry, both literally and spiritually. He wondered, first, why he had this residual emptiness, then, why his sheets smelled so different. 

He opened his eyes, and memories of the past twenty-four hours came rushing back. He’d had a breakdown in his bedroom after lunch. There was the feeling of something snapping in his psyche. So, he decided that he had to do _something_ about this looming, shitty, suppressive cloud over his head. He stole a couple of beers from the fridge, then went back for some brandy. 

Last night, he was thrown out of his house. 

Last night, he went running into the arms of Harry Potter. 

Potter, who was sleeping curled up in the armchair next to him, his hair tousled, but still looking stylish. And, apparently, who drooled in his sleep. 

He wondered what time it was. There wasn’t a clock in sight. For all he knew, he hadn’t slept at all. He was so tired. The sun was shining, albeit weakly. Was it the early-morning light, or just regular sunlight through England’s stupid, ever-present clouds?

Draco decided that, at the very least, he should be showing a little decorum when Potter woke up. He sat up, and held back a groan when his head began throbbing all over again. He straightened his back, then ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to straighten out his appearance. 

He moved to get up, only to step in what turned out to be an empty, metal bowl on the floor. It rattled, startling Potter awake. 

“Oh, good,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re not dead.”

Draco ignored the way Potter’s voice sent his heart into a frenzy. He also stopped himself from wondering when exactly Potter became capable of doing such a thing. 

He frantically ran a hand through his hair again. Of course, he’d been this out-of-place before, but never in the eyes of someone else. Letting others into his mind just wasn’t something he did. Draco wasn’t even sure what he was wearing. He looked down at the pyjamas he had been given — a T-shirt for a school unfortunately named ‘Hogwarts’ and a pair of joggers. 

“By all means, I’m not dead,” he snapped. “Now, er, if you could just tell me where my clothes have gotten to, I’ll get out of your hair. I’d hate to exploit your hospitality.”

But Potter just rolled his eyes. 

“Come on, mate, you can drop it already.”

“I haven’t got a clue what you—”

“I carried your drunk arse home and sat up to take care of you. Don’t go putting up the walls again. There’s no use.”

Draco sunk back into the settee, like a deflated balloon. A deflated balloon once full of pretenses and ill-fitting facades. 

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

Potter stood up, and stepped towards him. “Budge over,” he said. Draco scooted to the far end of the settee, and Potter sat on the other side. He reached for a remote control that was on an end table, and switched on the TV. 

They flipped through the channels — starting with the news, then old Saturday-morning cartoon reruns, and finally settling on trashy soap operas that they could mock together. Potter’s godfathers weren’t awake yet, but by the time they were halfway through an episode of _Brookside_ , they emerged from their bedroom. 

Lupin looked soft and cosy with his sleep-matted hair and wearing a rumpled henley. Black, on the other hand, looked ... well, he looked ready to kill someone, in all honesty. Draco wouldn’t put it past him. He’d heard the rumours of his hysterical rage after the murders of James and Lily Potter. 

“Harry,” Lupin said. “Why don’t you come with me, and we can fix breakfast for everyone.”

“I don’t think I’m that hungry—”

“That wasn’t really a request, Harry.”

They left Draco alone with Sirius. He sat in the armchair opposite the settee, leaning on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him. 

“How’s the hangover treating you?” he asked. 

Draco blinked at him. A nonchalant ‘ _how are you_ ’ wasn’t the greeting he was expecting. “I’ve, um, I’ve had better mornings.”

Sirius smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got something for that,” he said. 

He disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a radioactive-looking bottle of Gatorade. He tossed it to Draco. 

“Cures all hangovers. Your body’s dehydrated, see.”

Draco opened the bottle and nodded. “It’s all a matter of lowered electrolyte levels, and—” he stopped before he got going on one of his medical-rants. This wasn’t the time or place. 

“So, it seems you’ve worked your way into an elite club. The Black Sheep, if you will.” Sirius stopped to laugh at his own joke. “And I’m glad you’ve sorted out that that lot are no good. I really am. But you’ve got to understand how difficult it can be to leave your entire family behind. No matter how much you don’t like them.”

“Well, it’s not that I’ve got much of a choice in the matter,” Draco muttered. 

“Oh, but you do. You’ve got so much power over them, Draco. If you leave, the Malfoy name, the Black name, they both die with my generation. He may not behave like it, but I doubt Lucius can afford to lose you.”

Draco didn’t mention that he didn’t, actually, have this magical power, or that he wasn’t very interested in reproducing with a female at all. Again, not the time or the place. 

Sirius continued, “I was a little younger than you, when I left that house. And I’d always thought it’d be great fun. I never liked my parents at all. But I hadn’t anticipated the pain. The feeling that I wasn’t good enough, that I had nowhere to go. Luckily, I had friends like James — Harry’s dad — who could help me get everything together again. Take it from me, Draco. Don’t do this unless you’re prepared to change the structure of everything you’ve ever known.”

Draco let Sirius’ words sink in. And, from the speech, something twisted within him. Something he hadn’t felt since he was a child. The feeling of, ‘I want my Mummy.’ There was little else Draco wasn’t prepared to face, but Narcissa had never done wrong by him. He didn’t want to leave her, just as much as he was sure she didn’t want to leave him. 

“I don’t like much,” he replied. “But there are a couple things ... one or two people ...” He felt as though his body was shrinking as he added, “I don’t know what to do.”

Sirius reached over and patted his knee. “Don’t feel bad for liking some parts of your home. Remus and I took the liberty of speaking to your mother. To let her know you’re alright. And she said you’re welcome to go back, once Lucius calms down. In the meantime, we’re glad to have you here.”

Draco snorted. He couldn’t have possibly been serious. 

“I mean it,” Sirius said. “I know, more than anyone, how difficult this can be. And I think I’d sleep a little easier at night if I knew you were safe.”

He barked out a laugh, and Draco smiled along with him, even though there were tears pricking in his eyes.


	8. The Grass Is Like, As Green As Shrek's Swamp From Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco tries to navigate the strange new world he finds himself in, with supportive parent-figures, his newfound friendship with Harry, and no totalitarian legacy to live up to. Harry realizes that Draco is lost and scared. But, hey, he's fluent in that language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to post during the holidays, so I'm doubling up to stay on schedule. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of murder, character in crisis, quasi-abusive situation

**DRACO**

Draco knew life with the Lupin-Black-Potters would be different. He just never imagined _how_ different. 

He wasn’t used to all the affection — both Remus and Sirius’ paternal affection for Potter, and their clearly undying affection for one another. (Seriously). (They were like teenagers). (Draco had seen them snogging twice before he was even halfway through his breakfast).

It was as though the only normal thing was Potter. He kept catching snippets of the person he’d gotten to know through their late-night text conversations, and not the mask that the tabloids adored. 

Like when Potter would make an inside joke while piling scrambled eggs onto his plate, or when he waggled his eyebrows when Remus mentioned having to find a new family physician. 

There was a certain levity about them. Conversation was easy. They discussed literature, the news, food, travel, embarrassing moments from Potter’s childhood. 

Remus was doubled-over laughing as Sirius recounted the story of Potter confronting a guard at Buckingham Palace. Draco glanced over at Potter, who looked as though he’d like to set his godfathers on fire. 

“—so we’ve finally made it to the palace, exhausted and soaking wet, and all Remus and I really want to do is lie down and have a drink, but we decide we may as well look around. Only, Harry had vanished while we were talking, and we find him running up to a Queen’s Guard with his foam sword, saying—”

Potter interrupted him, and in a heavy Spanish accent, said, “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Draco, confused, quirked an eyebrow at him. 

“Oh, come on,” Potter said. “Inigo Montoya!” Draco shook his head. “From _The Princess Bride_!”

“Oh, that,” Draco said. “I’ve never seen it.”

The room fell deadly silent. 

“You’ve _what?_ ”

“How on Earth—”

“That’s complete sacrilege!”

Draco just barely managed to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s rich, coming from someone who’s never read Hemingway.”

Remus snorted, but Potter only seemed further spurred on. “That’s completely different. You’d have to have some sort of intelligence to read Hemingway. Much less enjoy it. But all you need to enjoy _The Princess Bride_ is a bit of wit.”

“You’re right, Potter. It _is_ completely different. You could find someone with some sort of intelligence on any street corner. Wit, on the other hand, is much harder to come by.”

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look, then both stood to leave. Sirius bent down to kiss Potter on the top of his head, and he shoved Sirius away. 

“Right,” he said, “we’re off. Maybe you could introduce Draco to the masterpiece that is so sorely missing from his life. Try not to burn the house down while we’re at work.”

Once they left, Potter collected their plates, put them in the sink, and said, “Shall we?”

As they headed to the lounge, he turned to Draco and added, “You can call me ‘Harry’, you know. The only people who call me ‘Potter’ are the professors at my school.”

“Oh, my, a first name basis? Next thing you know, we’ll be getting married for tax benefits.”

His heart was pounding in his chest as he made the suggestive comment, and he was certain he was blushing as Potter — Harry — replied, “Well, we _are_ already living together.” 

Draco sat cross-legged on the settee, and Harry knelt in front of the TV stand, flicking through stacks of DVDs. He selected one and set up the film. 

“You might be the only person I know who still uses DVDs,” Draco said. 

Harry shoved his shoulder. “Put a lid on it, will you?” He sat next to Draco. “Now. Are you ready for the single most beautiful piece of cinema ever created? I’ll answer that for you now — you’re not. This is sheer brilliance. It’s got it all. Swordfights. Revenge. Giants.”

Draco sat back, and waited for the previews to end. He was prepared for mist-covered moors, or knights in shining armour. He was not, however, expecting a quintessentially 80s bedroom. 

“Are you having me on?” he asked. 

Harry flapped a hand at him. “You’ll understand. Now shut the hell up.”

They spent the entire morning watching the film. Draco was, admittedly, impressed. Cary Elwes was a vision, dressed like a buccaneer, and there was an element of good, old-fashioned fantasy about it. It was also highly quotable. Harry nearly knew the entire thing by heart. 

The film ended with a passionate kiss on horseback, the heroes exhausted from fighting evil princes/murderers. Harry turned to him, his grin a mile-wide on his face. “Well?” he said. “What’d you think?”

“It was brilliant,” Draco replied sincerely.

They discussed the plot, the themes, the actors and a couple more of Harry’s embarrassing Princess Bride-related childhood incidents until Draco’s stomach audibly growled. 

“Oh, are you hungry?” he asked. “I could eat, myself. Let’s get dressed, and go grab some lunch.”

Draco didn’t want to put his over-the-top, probably sweat-stained suit back on. Fortunately, Harry sensed this, and brought him another T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Draco held the jeans at arm’s length and said, “I don’t remember the last time I wore something like this.”

His wardrobe mainly consisted of proper trousers and button-up shirts. Lucius would hardly have him going about in public wearing anything less. 

“Well, you’d be a laughingstock, going to lunch in what you were wearing last night. Come on, Draco, a bit of normal won’t kill you.”

He inspected the T-shirt. It was plain, but bright red, with a beige breast pocket. Hardly the sort of colour scheme he was used to. 

But then, Draco decided, fuck it. Fuck it all. He wasn’t a part of his father’s world, not properly. He didn’t want to be. Maybe he could have done something else outrageous, like dye his hair blue, or get his ears pierced while he was at it. 

He changed in the bathroom, and when he came out, Harry was sitting on the settee, fully dressed in a similar pair of jeans and a faded, threadbare Beatles T-shirt that had clearly once been Sirius’. He beamed at Draco when he stepped into the lounge. 

“There you go. You almost look like any other bloke.”

**HARRY**

As they walked to the nearest pizza parlour, the warm summer sun shining down on them, Draco confessed to Harry that he’d rather like to get a tattoo, someday. 

“I’ll be old enough to get one, soon,” he said. “But I imagine my mother would faint dead away if she were to find out. I just find them so lovely. A bit of art, that’ll be with me forever.”

“What would you get done?” Harry asked. 

Draco took a minute to think the question over, then replied, “I’d start small. Two or three tattoos, spread out on my back or arms. And they would be something that had meaning to me. Constellations, because I’m named after one. Or flowers, you know, daffodils, because they symbolize new beginnings, or sunflowers, they symbolize dedication.”

“You know a lot about flowers, do you?”

“I know a lot about symbolism,” Draco said. Then, after a moment, he added, “Your mother’s name was Lily, wasn’t it? They represent purity of heart.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her,” Harry said. “I wish I could’ve known her better. I only remember these snapshots of my life with my parents ... and most of them are from the day they were killed.”

“Jesus,” Draco muttered. 

The smell of (probably artificial) cheese greeted them as they stepped through the door of the pizza parlour. For a Saturday, the place wasn’t very busy. They ordered at the counter, and took a seat in a vinyl booth. 

Harry wondered if he should try to talk to Draco. He knew Sirius had already had a sincere discussion with him, but Draco may have wanted to complain to someone his own age. A friend. But, then, Harry wondered if Draco was sick and tired of everyone playing therapist all the time. 

At the same time, Harry and Draco broke the awkward silence by asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

They both laughed uneasily. Perhaps Draco was just as confused about what to do with a friend in a crisis as he was. 

“Sorry,” Draco said. 

“Did you mean, do I want to talk about my parents? Well, it’s nothing new. Like, at all.”

“Is this ... hard for you?” Draco asked, with an uncharacteristically concerned expression. “With everything that’s happened with me, don’t you think that I should just be grateful that I’ve got two living parents?”

“Of course not!” Harry exclaimed. “Having parents who treat you like that is just as bad as having no parents at all.”

Their food arrived, and Harry, who was very hungry, tore madly into his first slice of pizza. He ignored Draco when he screwed up his face in disgust. Before tucking into the food, Draco murmured, more to himself than to Harry, “Well, my mother’s not always so despicable.”

While they ate their pizzas, Harry tried to explain just what made football so great, and why Manchester was the best team. Draco, ever the book-worshipping nerd, couldn’t seem to care less, barely managing to muster up a weak, and obviously fake, smile. 

Harry pointed out this book-worshipping nerdiness, and Draco only responded with, “Well, _someone_ has to be the brains, here.”

“Hey! I’m not some mouth-breathing lad, just because I watch sports on TV.”

“I distinctly remember seeing you breathe through your mouth at least three times today,” Draco said matter-of-factly, as he finished off his slice. 

“My nose gets stuffed up! All these bloody flowers on all the street corners.”

“Mm-hm. Blame the village decor.”

They were still arguing the matter when they left the restaurant. Draco seemed more and more perturbed by the sheer stupidity of the argument as they went on, and at last he threw his hands into the air and exclaimed, “You’re a fucking lad, like it or not, but that’s hardly the worst thing you could be! For fuck’s sakes!”

Harry grinned in a mischievous way that he knew to be more James than himself. He felt like a detective who’d just gotten a criminal to confess. 

“Oh, you like lads, do you?” he said, nearly in a singsong voice. “A bit of ‘opposites attract’? Someone to challenge everything about you?”

Draco’s face was perfectly placid as he replied, “Shut up. That’s not true.”

But Harry could have sworn he saw a pinkish tinge to his cheeks. 

They wandered around the streets, until they came to a park. The park was large and posh, boasting neat flower gardens and a large playground. Harry tugged on Draco’s sleeve, guiding them both in the direction of the gate. 

Small children were running about, a couple holding popsicles, and Harry was reminded of the ending scene of _Mary Poppins_. A technicolour English dream world. A simpler time. He watched the children, swarming the playground while their parents watched, and then he watched Draco. 

Draco, in a T-shirt and jeans, looking perfectly normal for once in his life. Who wanted tattoos and liked lads, no matter how much he protested the fact. Harry wished he’d always known this side of him. Or that he could have helped him sooner. He hated to think of all the time that was wasted being enemies. 

The two followed the winding pathway through a small woods. On the other end was a bandstand, and they stopped for a moment to rest. Draco’s dress shoes from last night clearly weren’t designed for long walks. Harry had offered a pair of his trainers, but his feet were a couple sizes too small. 

They had only just resumed their walk when they came to a large pond. Draco groaned when he saw it, and said, “It’s just like the one from the park last night. Oh, god, it’s making my stomach turn.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Harry responded. “That other pond wasn’t nearly as nice.”

He knelt on the stony shore, picked up a pebble, and sent it skipping across the surface of the lake. It bounced once, twice, three times, four times, before sinking below the water. Draco crouched beside him. He picked up a stone of his own, turned it over in his hands a couple times, then tossed it towards the lake. There was a large splash, and it sunk without skipping. 

Harry held back a laugh. 

“Do you want me to show you?” he asked. 

Draco grunted, seeming very disappointed with himself, but he shuffled closer to him. 

“You need a flat stone,” Harry said, searching the ground and then handing him one that seemed adequate. 

“Hold it like this.” He bent Draco’s index finger around the curve of the stone. 

“Okay, now, bring your arm behind you, then flick it back around, and let go when your hand is in front of you.”

Draco followed his instructions, and the stone skipped twice. Harry whooped, and slapped him on the back. They kept practicing, and Harry told him about how he’d learnt while staying with the Weasleys, and how they were a massive family with a cozy, dilapidated house in Devon. He half-expected Draco to make some sort of grimace at their social status, but he instead said, “That sounds lovely.”

“How far do you think you could get one to go?” Draco asked, after a little while. 

Harry shrugged. “The other end of the pond, I’d say.”

“Bullshit. The farthest stone you threw barely made it halfway across.”

“Well, I wasn’t _trying_ to get them to the other end, was I?” Harry said. “I’ll wager my full set of Arthur Conan Doyle novels that I can do it.”

“You’re on.”

Harry scooched forward, as close to the pond as he could get. The water lapped at the toes of his trainers. He rooted around for a stone the right size and shape, and drew his arm back, to throw hard and at just the right angle. 

As he released the stone, he lost his balance and tumbled face-forward into the shallow, murky water. He sat up instantly. His front was completely soaked, and he spat out a mouthful of water, but still managed to see his stone stop and sink, thankfully, at the far end of the pond. 

Harry turned triumphantly to Draco, but he was lying on his back, clutching his stomach and shaking with laughter. With as much dignity as he could muster, Harry wrung out the front of his shirt, and got to his feet. 

“I think this is the single worst feeling I’ve ever experienced,” he said, his voice monotonous from the shame of it all. 

Draco propped himself up on his elbows. “Do you have any idea how many ducks have shit in that pond?”

Harry cringed, and shoved him back down. “Ew, ew, ew, _shut up_. You’re making me want to drink hand sanitizer.”

They trudged back to the flat, exhausted, but in good spirits in spite of Harry’s tumble. Harry ran for the bathroom as soon as he was in the front door, shouting over his shoulder for Draco to make himself at home. 

He took a shower, washing his hair twice, and making sure to scrub every crevice that might still have germy pond-water. Nearly twenty minutes later, he emerged in a robe, and ducked into his room to change. 

They still had a few hours to kill before his godfathers came home. Harry convinced Draco to play MarioKart, and then he showed Draco how to bake bread. Remus and Sirius seemed pleased to come home to two loaves baking in the oven. 

That evening, they went out for dinner, to a quiet, casual restaurant, where they wouldn’t be spotted by the press. Sirius quietly explained to Harry that he’d rather keep Draco’s little visit out of the papers, for now. 

Harry and Draco put on pyjamas almost immediately after getting home. They were sitting in Harry’s room, and Draco was inspecting his bookshelf while Harry searched Netflix for a film worth watching. 

“Have you decided when you’re going back?” Harry asked. He wanted to add ‘or, _if_ you’re going back’ but thought he wasn’t quite ready to have the guest bedroom re-designed to accommodate a fourth family member. Yet. 

“I thought tomorrow,” Draco replied, after a pause. “For my school reading, if nothing else. And if my mother thinks she can keep my father from shipping me off to conversion therapy, I don’t see why not.”

“You can come back and visit,” Harry said. “Any time. Or call or text when it’s too much, or...”

“I ... I don’t need to be coddled like this, Harry,” Draco said. “All these serious conversations, everywhere I go. Let’s just talk about something light and meaningless, shall we?”

Harry set his laptop down, and scooched to the end of the bed. “What’s your favourite colour?” he asked. 

A smile tugged at the ends of Draco’s mouth. “Green. Yours?”

“Red. Favourite band?”

“Muse. Who would you cast to play you in a film about your life?”

Harry had to stop and think before answering. “Good question,” he said. “I’d have to say Elijah Wood.”

They stayed up into the long hours of the night, just talking, sitting cross-legged Harry’s bed. At times, they fought hard against sleep, their eyes drooping and minds wandering. 

Draco asked him whether he should sleep in there, or on the sofa again. Harry shrugged. 

“We’ll see where the night goes,” he responded, then blushed. He hadn’t meant for that to sound like a proposition. When he looked up at Draco to see if he was equally embarrassed, his face was turned away, busying himself with inspecting Harry’s bookshelf again. 

They wound up drifting off, both curled up on top of the covers on Harry’s bed. The next morning, they woke with aching backs and stiff legs. 

Breakfast was waiting for them, as were Remus and Sirius. Over his scrambled eggs on toast, Draco mentioned that he’d texted his mother, and that she would be round some time that morning to take him back to his house. 

Harry’s heart sank at his words. He’d been hoping for another afternoon with him, at least. There were still things to do together. Harry had so many stories he wanted to tell him. He was going to help him research tattoo parlours. He was . . . 

Harry set his glass down sharply, but nobody thought anything of it. His mouth went dry all at once, as he realized that platonic mates didn’t get this upset about spending time apart. 

The chatter in the room seemed to fade and disappear as he wondered when he started to fancy Draco Malfoy.


	9. ANGST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from the holidays with some more Drarry for you all!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Some internalized homophobia, mention of homophobic environment, full-on gay crisis, nightmares, mention of torture, quasi-abusive situation

**HARRY**

Once Narcissa Malfoy had come to collect her son, Harry barricaded himself in his room. He opened a window, because his throat were closing up, and began to pace around, his hands wound deeply into his hair. 

Obviously, he’d grown up in an LGBT-friendly household. He had always been told that anyone he brought home would be welcomed. And maybe it was the normalization of homosexuality that made it so easy for him to miss stuff like attraction to men. Oliver Wood from school, running along the football field came to mind. So did Cedric Diggory, that handsome boy a few years above him, who’d been so nice to him back in fourth year. And Bill Weasley, Ron’s oldest brother, who always looked like he was on tour with a rock band. 

In a way, Harry blamed his obliviousness to his own sexuality on the fact that he was being raised by a gay couple. Deep down, he was afraid of what the world would think if he turned out gay, too. He had always been proof for people that gay couples aren’t some demons on Earth, looking to corrupt the children they raise. Part of him wanted to keep up the image of a perfectly normal teenager, for the sake of all the other same-sex couples out there. 

But, then, there wasn’t anything abnormal about being gay. 

Another part of him had always known, but just decided it wasn’t important. He fancied guys. He thought about them at night, and sometimes when getting with other girls. So what? Unless he was actively shoving his tongue down some bloke’s throat, it was irrelevant. 

Until now. With Draco fucking Malfoy was plastered all over his mind, Harry wondered how he’d ever managed to suppress that part of him at all. Or how he hadn’t just shoved Draco up a wall and kissed his brains out years ago. 

And, Christ on a bike, did he ever want to kiss him. 

What did this mean? Was he bi, or gay, or what? An image of Ginny Weasley came to mind, her lying on his chest, bare skin to bare skin, while he ran a hand up and down her back. No, definitely not gay. Just . . . a label to figure out some other time. 

He had no idea how to proceed. Should he come out to his godfathers? To Ron and Hermione? Shit, what if they already knew? Harry felt he’d never live down the mortification of being the last person to figure out his sexuality. 

Then, he wondered what this meant with Draco. 

Because any relationship would be doomed to fail. Romeo and Juliet on steroids with countless tabloids and a dozen or so politicians-on-payroll brought into the mix. They’d never be allowed to be together. Lucius Malfoy would send some men to bring about Harry’s death, and make it look like a tragic, yet humiliating accident. 

Fuck Lucius Malfoy. The bastard didn’t give a damn about who he hurt on his frenzied quest for power, including his own son. Harry was tempted to arrange an embarrassing assassination of his own, just so the fuckwit could have a taste of his own medicine. 

Harry sighed, and dropped like a ragdoll onto the carpet. He curled into the fetal position and willed his brain not to explode. 

Draco probably didn’t even fancy him. Just because he fancied blokes, didn’t mean he fancied Harry. He felt a pang of guilt at how selfish it would be to ruin what was probably the only real friendship Draco had ever had. 

Maybe he should become a monk, and shave his head, and take some crazy abstinence pledge. Or do the exact opposite. Empty his bank account and go somewhere far, far away where he could lead a promiscuous and meaningless life with any man or woman he could get on their back. 

Harry wished he wasn’t so alone in this. But who would he tell? Ron and Hermione would never understand. Remus and Sirius would probably ban sleepovers until marriage. 

' _Stop_ acting like you two are already betrothed or something,’ he thought to himself. 

He felt childish. Or worse, like the main character in a shitty romance film. Only, this was exactly like a shitty romance film. Having a full-on gay crisis over the boy who had until recently been his arch-enemy definitely sounded like something Jake Gyllenhaal would star in. 

Harry remembered a line from _Persuasion_ — “You have pierced my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” He’d thought it was a load of bullshit, at the time. Souls probably didn’t even exist. And being stabbed through the soul could barely be compared to love. 

But, somehow, he found himself able to relate to that quote quite a bit. Now he could understand the feeling of a pierced soul. Or just a massively hormonal teenage brain. Either way, Harry could feel himself drowning in angst. 

**DRACO**

All night, Draco had been wondering what his homecoming would be like. When he fell asleep, he dreamt of the large foyer of his parents’ house, with a chair with countless straps sitting in the middle of it, beckoning him closer, trying to reform him. He woke in a cold sweat, and didn’t say a word of it to Harry. 

The ride home was awkward at best. Clearly, his mother was torn between showing support for her business and her husband, and showing support for him. She kept clearing her throat to speak, only to quickly turn her head away, flashing him a tense, yet somehow comforting smile. 

More than once, images of that _Clockwork Orange_ -esque chair went through his mind. But when they arrived at the house, and Draco stepped uneasily through the front door, he was met by an empty foyer, immaculate as always. 

His mother tried to say something to him, but he took off for his room. He was itching to get out of his that sweaty, grimy suit he had worn to Harry’s. 

However, when Draco kicked his door shut behind him, he came skidding to a standstill, his jacket shrugged halfway off his shoulders. This was wrong. So, so wrong. The very walls seemed to reject him. Reminders that he wasn’t wanted, of the life he wanted to get away from so badly, were everywhere he turned. 

Between Draco’s two windows was a portrait of himself and his parents. A real painting, that they had to pose for and everything, done up when he was around ten. Skin crawling, Draco reached up and took it off the wall. He set it face-down in his wardrobe. Then he took the stack of binders from his apprenticeship at Malfoy Enterprises, and dumped them on top of the painting. 

He went around his room, putting away anything that hurt to look at, until his wardrobe was full, and he had to go get a large cardboard box from the kitchens. Ornate dress shoes, leather-bound books, some family heirlooms and more vanished from sight as he closed the box, and slid it under his bed. The bed was so large that the box fit with room to spare. 

Draco finally unbuttoned his shirt and reached for clean clothes as he looked around the now-bare room. The walls were nearly completely empty. His desk, which had been piled high with schoolwork and M.E. notes, was deserted, except for some pens and notebooks. The only thing that went truly untouched was his bookcase. Draco liked to think that, at the very least, his impeccable taste in literature was something of his own. 

Even his clothes made a fire burn in his chest, but he could hardly go and buy an entirely new wardrobe while he was in his father's bad graces. As he rifled through crisp button-up shirts and trousers, he wondered how he wasn’t bullied every day of his life as a child, going around dressed up like a dashing young love interest in an Audrey Hepburn film or something. 

Eventually, Draco settled on what seemed to be his least ostentatious outfit — a forest-green jumper, and beige khaki trousers. 

With a deep sigh, he sat on the edge of his bed. A feeling of emptiness tugged on his very soul. His entire life, he had been a son, a genius, a millionaire, an heir. He knew his purpose. But what was he now? 

A boy. A scared boy in a world he didn’t recognize, suddenly without a hand to hold. 

He thought of all the other things, all the bad things, he had been before, as well. Pouty. A bully. Suppressed. Constrained. Threatened. 

And, somehow, the tugging lessened a little. Draco thought of all the possibilities that were waiting for him, now that he had no legacy to live up to. He could be a real doctor, for one. Or go on a date with whichever man he pleased. Or . . . 

Draco opened the top drawer on his bedside table and took out his laptop. It was already open to Google, the caret blinking expectantly in the search bar. He was going to take his first step to becoming the new and improved Draco Malfoy, and he was going to by doing what he did best — research. 

He typed ‘tattoo parlours near me’ into the search bar and pressed enter, then scrolled through the websites that came up. 

An hour or so later, Draco had written down the numbers of a couple parlours that seemed up to par. 

His mother had come in to his room while he was researching, and he covertly opened a new tab as she set a cup of tea down on his bedside table. She ran a hand through his hair, and said, “My dear, you know that—” before stopping, pursing her lips, and leaving with another awkward smile. 

Awkward smiles seemed to be the only way his mother communicated, now. 

Draco idly sipped the tea as he continued his research, but set it down on the bed when he came across a parlour that looked particularly promising. He scrolled through their images of tattoos they’d done, and spotted one of an elaborate coat of arms he recognized belonging to that unfortunately-named school of Harry’s. He took a screenshot of the tattoo, and sent it to Harry, along with a message that said, **How about I start with something like this?**

He closed his laptop, and pressed a hand to his cheek, which had suddenly grown hot. Something had changed during his stay with Harry. Apart from the undeniable new friendship between them, they had let their walls down for each other. And with the walls coming down, Draco felt something new creeping in, something that had been lurking on the edges of his feelings towards Harry for some time. 

Now, he let himself ogle Harry’s hair. Multiple times, he caught himself staring into his emerald-green eyes, or being swept away by desire when Harry mustered together enough wit to crack a clever joke. 

(No matter how much things had changed, Draco doubted he would ever stop insulting him).

Of course, his attraction to Harry wasn’t quite new. There was a familiarity about the wanting. But now he felt safe, and happy in his company. As though this had all been a steady crescendo of emotions, until it burst through to the surface. 

So, yeah. He may have been in love. 

Cool.

Draco closed his laptop, scooched to the end of his bed, and stretched. The cup, which was still sitting on his bed and half-full of tea, toppled over, dousing his snow-white bedsheets. He cursed under his breath and dove to pick it up, but it was too late to save the sheets. He’d have to see if someone could get the stain out, and make up his bed again in the meantime. He stripped off all the blankets and sheets, piled them on the floor, then went looking for that smart-mouthed housekeeper. 

Their house was built rather strangely. His mother explained, once, that the man who designed the building was an artist, and quite eccentric. A large stone staircase lead from the street to the foyer, which was on the upper floor. The bedrooms, sitting rooms, dining room, and libraries filled the long, narrow level, and down a twisting set of stairs was the lower level, with the kitchens, board rooms, and offices. 

Draco walked down the corridor, peeking in all the rooms in search of her. The guest bedrooms beside his room were empty, as was the music room. He stuck his head in the main sitting room. It, too, was unoccupied, and he was about to carry on when something caught his eye. 

As always, the family tapestry hung in its place of honour above the mantel. A handful of scorch marks peppered the fabric, but a new one, still black from the freshly-burned fibres, was at the bottom, next to his own name. 

A sob forced its way out of Draco’s throat. He could all-too-easily imagine his father stood menacingly before the tapestry, a lighter in his hand, and his mother pushing his arm away at the last minute. He didn’t dare think that his father decided better of burning him off just in the nick of time. 

Amongst many things, Draco felt foolish. He was naive to think he could just waltz back into this house, this family, and put up with his father’s distant behaviour and nothing more. Of course, there would be more repercussions than that. He saw that, now. 

He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t give Lucius the satisfaction, even if he wasn’t watching. He wanted to run away, but he knew that, if it had solved nothing the first time around, it wouldn’t do much now. So he did the only thing that made sense, in that moment. He retreated to his room, opened his window, and scrambled up onto the roof, like he used to when he was a child. With shaking hands, he took his phone from his pocket, and called Harry.


	10. What If We Kissed In The Kitchen, And We're Both Boys? Haha, Unless...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco have both been thinking. About their feelings. About each other. About their feelings towards each other. And with them both wound up so tight, it's only a matter of time before one of them snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of quasi-abusive living situation, brief mention of death, slight internalized homophobia, implied sexual content.

**HARRY**

A week had passed since Draco came to stay. They’d talked every night since then. From the sounds of things, it wasn’t too easy for him to be back. Harry wished there was more he could do, wished he could take this pain from him. But Draco kept refusing his offers for him to move in and sleep in the bathtub, so for now his hands were tied. 

The past week had been torturous. More than once, Harry considered calling Scotland Yard to suggest a new interrogation method — introduce the suspect to someone so fascinating and attractive that they can think of nothing else, and are driven so mad that they confess to whatever crime just so they can have the distraction of prison. 

He wondered if Draco would come to visit him in prison. 

He saw Draco in everything. The day after he left, Harry had gone round to Hermione’s, and sent him a photo of her cat, Crookshanks, looking cross while sitting behind a book that was left open. The attached message said, **this is you**.

Draco responded with a picture of himself, pouting at a book. Harry laughed when he saw it, warmth spreading throughout his body, and made it Draco’s contact photo. When he got home that afternoon, he flopped face-first onto the foot of his bed, where Draco had slept, curled up like a puppy. He inhaled deeply. His smell still lingered on the sheets. Like freshly-ironed clothes, and some sort of fancy, spiced cologne. 

In the following days, his mind wandered as though he were in one of Professor Binns’ most boring lessons. He thought of Draco constantly. At any given moment, he could be found wondering whether he was alright, in that horrible house, which Harry would burn to the ground given the chance. If he imagined Draco too vividly, alone and dejected, he would get so sad that he would make up some excuse to call him, just to make him laugh. 

Draco even haunted his dreams. Which, admittedly, was far, _far_ better than the nightmares of his parents’ deaths. But when he would wake in the middle of the night, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason, he couldn’t help but feel a bit perverted. After all, Draco hadn’t given his permission to be in Harry’s dreams. 

If he wasn’t fretting over Draco’s happiness and well being, he was compiling a list in his mind of all the things he wanted to do with him, or to him, some dirtier than others. 

Sometimes he felt his trademark, charming smile had been traded in for thousand-metre stares. 

The following Thursday, Harry and Sirius were lying on separate sofas in the lounge, listening to Beatles album after Beatles album on the turntable. Somewhere along the way, they’d breached the subject of the ‘Paul McCartney is dead’ conspiracy theory. 

“No, but, the question is, if he’s been dead since 1969 or whatever, then how’d he record any songs from his solo career?” Harry said. 

Sirius chuckled, deep and low. “That’s not what’s important. They can do all sorts of things with recordings, you know. What you _should_ be thinking about is — have you ever seen Paul in person?”

“Well, of course I haven’t—”

“Then you’ve no way of knowing if he’s actually dead.”

“I don’t think that—”

“No, but you can’t be sure, can you?”

Remus shuffled out of their bedroom, rubbing his eyes. His clothes were ruffled from his nap, and his words were garbled as he said, “Jesus, are you two still listening to all those albums?”

He clambered over the back of the sofa, and draped himself on top of Sirius, chest-to-chest. Clearly, he wasn’t ready to join the world of the living. Harry watched as Sirius kissed the top of his head, and he wondered whether now would be a good moment to tell them about his gay crisis. Minus the part about having said gay crisis over Draco. It felt wrong to tell his godfathers before even bringing it up with Draco himself. 

But then Sirius said, “What do you think, Remus, is Paul McCartney actually dead?” and Harry knew he wasn’t ready to tell them. Even though he prided himself on his courage, he just couldn’t work up the guts to blurt, “I’m sure this couldn’t be any less of a shock to you, but I’ve recently realized my fondness for all things to do with dick.”

They _had_ noticed something was up. Several times, Harry had caught them exchanging concerned looks, and they kept starting conversations by saying things like, ‘You know, if there’s anything troubling you at the moment...’ but Harry would just change the subject to football, or the weather, or some other meaningless topic. 

As the turntable cranked out _Something_ , Harry fought off a blush as another one of his daydreams came to mind — his and Draco’s soft, drowsy bodies, tangled up in the sheets and each other, waking up slowly together in the bright morning sun. It was all too easy for Harry to imagine himself leaning forward to murmur, ‘Something in the way he moves, attracts me like no other lover.’

God, when did he become such a sap?

Maybe he’d always been a sap, but only for men. 

Harry stood up, stretched, and headed for his room. 

“Hey!” Sirius called. “What about Paul?”

Harry grinned, and said over his shoulder, “Paul will forgive me if I have to use the loo, I think.”

Before continuing to his ensuite bathroom, Harry stopped to bury his face in the sheets at the foot of his bed, and inhaled deeply. The smell of Draco was nearly gone. In fact, Harry was sure that, by now, he was only imagining it. 

He tried to push down the anxious feeling. He was brave, goddamnit, he always had been. But the rational part of his brain tried to explain that it was only natural to feel nervous, in that moment. 

Remus and Sirius were going to be gone all afternoon and evening, for one of the biggest meetings of the year between the most powerful companies in Britain. Harry had taken advantage of the guarantee that both his and Draco’s parents would be away, and invited him over. Just to hang out. 

Right?

Well, Harry wasn’t sure. He’d been debating whether or not he should just cut the crap and confess his overwhelming feelings for Draco. Now, the paranoid and rational parts of his brain were engaged in a vicious battle over the pros and cons of doing this. 

Pros: No more secrets between them. The possibility of requited feelings. The possibility of a meaningful and lasting relationship. 

Cons: Ruining their friendship. Making an ass out of himself. Making Draco uncomfortable. Making Draco feel like Harry only felt this way because he was another gay bloke to safely get off with. Ruining the future of Marauders Incorporated by fucking the heir to the rival company. 

Eventually, he decided to just stop listening to the rational and paranoid parts altogether. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. 

Harry rejoined his godfathers in the lounge, and the conversation moved on to musical conspiracy theories. Remus was still shouting that Kurt Cobain had _obviously_ been murdered when Sirius shoved him out the door for the meeting. 

They had barely been gone for ten minutes when a cab pulled up outside, and Draco got out. Harry, who had been watching from the window, darted away as his heart rose to his throat while his stomach simultaneously dropped to the floor. 

This was it. 

He ran downstairs to meet Draco on the street. He looked different. As if the person Harry had seen, with nothing to hide anymore, was finally emerging on the outside. Draco had gotten his hands on a pair of jeans. Clearly some expensive designer brand, perfectly tailored and form-fitting, but still a step below his usual dress trousers. Or a step above, depending on how you looked at it. 

Harry suddenly realized he’d been staring. He awkwardly cleared his throat, and said, “Um, hello. Was the ride up alright?”

He wanted to smack himself. ‘Was the ride up alright?’ Idiot. 

But Draco just smiled. A genuine smile, maybe with a hint of knowing, and he pulled Harry in for a hug. “It was alright,” he said, his mouth surprisingly close to Harry’s ear. “Thanks for inviting me. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.”

They pulled apart. Harry hoped his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. _Keep your cool, Potter_ , he thought to himself. 

“Shall we go up?” he asked. 

Draco kicked off his shoes when they got back upstairs, and Harry, who had been in just his socks, was happy to be standing on something other than the cold pavement. 

Harry sat on the sofa, and Draco followed suit. He wondered whether Draco was sitting closer than normal — their knees were touching, they were so close — or whether it was just a platonic bro thing. 

Draco reached in the large pocket of his jacket, and took out a small, thick book. He handed it to Harry. 

“I got this for you,” he said. Harry read the cover. _Ernest Hemingway: The Collected Stories_. “You’ve got to at least give him a try. He was incredibly influential for writing in the 20th century. It’s like claiming to be an expert on music without ever having listened to Elvis.”

“You do realize,” Harry said, “that by giving me this, you’re acknowledging the fact that I’m intelligent? Because I seem to remember someone saying that—”

“Alright, alright, whatever you say. But I won’t truly believe it until I see a school report.”

“I’ll dig one up later,” he murmured. He flipped through the pages, and a highlighted section caught his eye. He went back to it, and read aloud, “There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men. True nobility lies in being superior to your former self.”

Harry turned to look at Draco, an eyebrow raised. He noticed he had a tinge of pink in his cheeks. 

“You remember, don’t you?” Draco said. “New beginnings. Daffodils.”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry replied with a smile.

They sat in silence for several moments. Harry looked Draco over while he stared absently at the book. His hair was nearly the same colour as his skin. Maybe Harry should try to get him outside while he was here, to get a bit of sun. His eyes were steel-grey. They had a sort of sharpness about them, showing that he was always alert, always thinking, always analysing. Harry was tempted to lean over and kiss the corners of them. 

Draco looked up, and they briefly stared at one another before looking away. Harry averted his gaze to the floor, hoping, praying that he didn’t notice him ogling. When he looked back up, Draco’s eyes were still fixed on him 

“Right,” Harry said, clapping his hands together. Draco jumped. “What d’you want to do? We’ve got more MarioKart, we’ve got more films, we could go to town again, we could bake something...”

Draco snorted. “You know, when we made bread last week, that was the first time I had baked in years,” he said. A fond smile flashed across his face. “We had this old cook, when I was a little boy, who would let me help her make cookies around the holidays.” Then he added, “My father had her fired when she refused to make dinner for Piers Morgan.”

“Piers Morgan’s had dinner at your house?” Harry exclaimed. Draco make an, ‘I know, right?’ expression. “Well, let’s break that cookie dry spell, then.”

Once they were in the kitchen, Harry said, “I don’t envy Remus and Sirius much, today. These meetings always turn into fits and tantrums between them and your father.”

Draco, who had been smiling fondly, frowned at his statement. He took a step back from Harry. Harry tried to close the space between them again, but he just turned away. 

“Draco, I didn’t mean...”

“I know,” he replied stiffly. “It’s fine. Let’s just get to baking, yeah?”

Harry climbed on top of a counter and pulled a narrow binder down from the top shelf of the cabinet. He opened it to a tab labelled ‘Desserts’. He sat cross-legged on the counter, flipping through the binder, and waiting for Draco to call him out on being so unsanitary. He didn’t say anything. 

Draco was staring absently out the window, and Harry wished he could get his hands on a time machine. In his defense, he didn’t exactly say anything that seemed super offensive or triggering. But Draco had been through a lot. Harry supposed he wouldn’t always be able to predict what upset him. 

“How do brownies sound?” Harry said. “Wait, no, let me guess, you’re more of a white chocolate guy. Or a peppermint guy.” Under his breath, he added, “I’m not sure how you’d get peppermint into a cookie, though.”

Draco snorted, but still seemed tense from where he stood by the kitchen door. As if he was getting ready to bolt. Harry sighed, and scrambled down from the counter, tossing the binder aside. He walked up to Draco, and grabbed him by the shoulder. 

“Listen, mate,” he said. “I know that this is upsetting. And you’re allowed to be upset, of course you are, but _please_ , talk to me if something’s worrying you. You said it yourself, you’ve been looking forward to this for ages. Don’t let’s spoil today by sulking and not talking about it, alright?”

Draco did nothing, for a moment, and Harry suddenly realized how close they were standing. He could lean over and kiss him, if he wanted to, if it wasn’t a completely terrible time. 

Then Draco nodded. “Alright,” he said. “It’s — it’s just different, being somewhere I can just ... somewhere I can relax, and be myself. I, uh, I’m sorry.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry said. “Don’t apologize.”

Desperate to diffuse the situation, Harry pushed him backwards, grinning. Draco smiled back, and then they both started laughing. 

“I could do with some chocolate chip cookies,” Draco suggested. “But you were wrong about the white chocolate. White chocolate was created by Satan himself and should be removed from the face of the planet.”

“Alright, then, tell us how you really feel,” Harry said, going back for the binder. 

Draco started opening cupboards and peering inside them. “We’ll need flour, won’t we?”

“Jesus, you’re worse off than I thought. Wouldn’t you know that just from, like, common sense?”

“Yes, yes, I know, I was raised into a heteronormative, gender-role enforcing hellhole, and I have the household skills of a fucking princess in the eighteenth century or whatever. Just answer the question. Do we need flour?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Thank you.”

Draco moved around the kitchen, looking for ingredients as Harry asked for them. Once they were all gathered, he moved to stand behind Harry and read the recipe from behind him, just about hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder. 

“Er, right,” Harry began. “We should start with microwaving the butter, to warm it up.”

Harry did just that, prodding the softened butter with his fingers to make sure it had been in for long enough. He dumped it in a mixing bowl, and instructed Draco to add the sugar while absently running a hand through his hair. 

Draco stared at him, his mouth twitching as though he was trying not to laugh. “Are you aware of the fact that you’ve got butter in your hair?” he said. 

Before Harry could move to get it out, Draco ran his hands through his hair, picking out the splotches of butter. Harry didn’t dare imagine how bug-eyed he must have been, but he only hoped the sudden surge of lust didn’t show on his face. 

Harry rested a hand on his wrist, for a moment, holding him there, feeling the lightning-fast heartbeat under his fingertips. Then he pushed Draco’s hand away, beaming, and saying, “Okay, no need to treat me like a chimpanzee.”

Draco stammered over his response, then said, “I can’t think of a single thing to say that doesn’t sound like an insult.”

“Well, we can’t always be witty, can we?”

Again, Draco stammered, then he sighed heavily, and forced himself to look at the floor. “Fuck it,” he muttered. In a louder voice, he continued, “I ... Do you have any idea what you do to me, Harry?” He took a step closer, and Harry had to stop himself from backing away. “It’s like, I don’t know, like you keep putting my brain in a deep-fryer.” Harry took a deep breath, and their chests brushed together. “Like I can’t get myself to say half the things I think.” Draco tilted his head. Harry was sure he was just imagining that he was leaning forward. “I’m going to lose my fucking mind because of you.”

He looked pointedly down at Harry’s lips, then back up at his eyes, wordlessly asking for permission. Harry nodded, hopefully not too eagerly, and Draco lunged at him, pressing their mouths together. 

One of Harry’s hands took hold of Draco’s neck, the other cupping his jaw. Draco, meanwhile, was clinging to his hips. His lips were softer than he imagined, contrasting sharply with the unfamiliar scratch of stubble on Harry’s chin. 

He deepened the kiss, pushing Draco’s mouth open, and was wondering if it would be weird to start using tongue when Draco beat him to it, licking a line across his teeth. In retaliation, Harry tugged them back against the counter. The small of his back hit the hard marble edge, and he tore his hand away from Draco’s jaw to steady himself, knocking down the flour in the process. 

They broke apart, and both swore quietly. Harry dropped to the ground, desperately trying to sweep all the flour up as quickly as possible with one hand while wiping his mouth with the other. Of all the fucking times... 

“Have you got a broom?” Draco said, shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other.

Harry sat back on his heels. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. That’s smart. It’s in the closet, by the door, there.”

Draco went and got the broom, and in no time the flour was all swept up and thrown away. Harry had no sooner set down the dustpan as he turned and grasped Draco by the shoulders, pulling him in for a kiss and then stumbling backwards towards the lounge. Softened butter be damned. 

Harry’s mind was going a million miles a second, thinking about Draco, the way Draco felt, what Draco might be thinking, how Draco’s left hand kept sliding down to the small of Harry’s back as they continued to stumble blindly around the flat. 

He also thought of what this meant, now, and how it would affect their friendship, their lives, their families, their businesses, their public images. Altogether, there was entirely too much riding on the romance of a couple of teenagers. 

Then his thoughts came to a crashing halt as Draco worked his hand into Harry’s hair and tugged. All of a sudden, nothing existed outside of the feeling of his hands in his hair. Harry stopped kissing him for a moment, sighing sharply into his mouth. Even though his eyes were closed, Harry knew Draco was smirking. He tugged on his hair again. 

“Fucking hell,” Harry mumbled. 

“Who knew,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper, “that after all this time, your weakness was in your hair?”

“Fuck you.”

“Please do.”

Since no amount of shared trauma or make-outs could change the competitive nature of their relationship, and Harry wanted to wipe that smug look off his face, he let his hands wander down Draco’s body, squeezing his ass. 

He kissed him again, and they fell back against the wall next to Harry’s bedroom door. Draco pulled away, so Harry grabbed his ass again and darted forward to catch his lips. Draco turned his head to the side. 

“Harry ... Harry, I know it’s been made incredibly obvious at this point, but I, well — Jesus, this sounds so pathetic — I like you as more than just a sworn-enemy-turned-best-friend. 

Not for the first time in his life, Harry felt massiveley stupid. Because, to him, it wasn’t incredibly obvious. There were about a million different things they could have called this. 

“So ... so, you’re saying you want to be boyfriends?”

Draco cringed. “Not quite. Not yet,” he replied. “I’m saying I don’t want things to stop here. I want to take you to dinner. I want us to see each other in, er, a romantic way, but I don’t want this to just be meaningless makeouts when one of us needs to unwind.”

“That sounds very nice, actually.”

“Do you, uh, do you feel the same?”

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed. “Shit, yeah. Sorry. Should’ve said that sooner. Definitely. You’ve given me, like, a not-quite quarter-life crisis, here.”

“Are you saying I turned the oh-so desirable Harry Potter gay?”

“You can’t just turn people gay, you know—”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware. It’s called a joke.”

They stood there for a moment, holding each other, staring at each other, too scared to believe it was true. That this was happening, at long last, after years of tension and buildup. Even if they hadn’t known what they were building up to at the time.

Draco brushed a tendril of hair out of Harry’s face, then leaned forward to kiss him. Gently, this time, like he was trying not to disturb the silence. They let things progress slowly, building up until Harry was unbuttoning Draco’s shirt, and Draco was leading them into his room, shoving the door closed behind them. 

Harry was faintly aware of rain drumming against the window. He wondered if he’d fallen asleep at all as he mindlessly stroked up and down Draco’s bare back. 

They hadn’t gone any further than kissing and groping with their shirts off in Harry’s bed, but it went on for ages. In his drowsy state, Harry could feel phantom hands on his body, running down his legs, pressing hot kisses to the skin of his chest. The memory of the feeling of Draco’s smooth hair beneath his fingertips was so vivid that Harry stroked his scalp now, just because he could. 

Draco, too, was half-asleep, lying flush on top of Harry. He hummed contentedly at Harry’s touch, and burrowed further into his chest. Harry pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Who knew you’d be so caring after the fact, Potter?” he murmured. 

“Well, funnily enough, just because we’ve stopped making out doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring.”

Draco snorted. “You’d be surprised how much it happens.”

Harry rolled to the side, so that they were both lying face-to-face on the bed.

“Is it crazy that I want you now more than ever?” Harry said. 

“Yes. Completely mad. What’s worse is that I do too.”

Harry smiled and shuffled closer to him to kiss him. Draco was quick to grab hold of him, one hand sliding down his back and the other burying itself in his hair. Harry shivered, and to get back at him, busied himself with a particular spot in the crook of Draco’s neck, which was already turning a deep pink. 

The front door slammed shut and they jumped apart. It must have been later than Harry thought. He shot Draco an apologetic look as he searched for their shirts on the floor. He was wondering how he was going to explain Draco’s presence to Remus and Sirius, or, more accurately, how he was going to explain Draco’s presence in addition to the lovebites that peppered both of their necks, when a shout from the other end of the flat caught his attention. 

“DON’T FUCKING TELL ME TO CALM DOWN, MOONY, YOU’RE JUST AS PISSED OFF AS I AM!”

Harry tossed Draco his shirt, and said, “Wait here a moment,” before going to investigate. All of a sudden, his concerns about the lovebites seemed trivial. 

Remus and Sirius were standing by the front door, both still in their jackets and shoes, caught in the middle of one of their infrequent shouting matches. 

“Hey!” Harry said. “What’s happened?”

Remus’ forehead was deeply creased with worry, and a vein was bulging by his temple. Harry recognized this as his Silent Fury — meaning he had long ago surpassed outrage. Sirius, on the other hand, was vibrating with anger, down to the very ends of his long mane of hair. 

“You tell him, then,” Sirius snapped. 

Remus sighed. His voice was tight as he said, “We’ve had some bad news at the meeting. Very bad news.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “It seems as though Malfoy Entreprises—”

“— bunch of devils. The whole lot of them can—”

“Thank you, Sirius. It seems as though Malfoy Enterprises has decided to take on the entertainment industry. Approximately 40% of our clients have been convinced to switch over—”

“Stolen!” Sirius spat. 

“—by Lucius.”

Harry felt like he’d been dropped off a cliff, into the freezing cold-ocean. Dread was consuming him whole, and he hardly even heard himself ask what it meant for the company. What it meant for the family. 

“Almost all of our influence is gone,” Sirius said. “We’ll just about have to start over, now. I don’t think we’ll ever . . . I’m sorry, Harry, we shouldn’t be troubling you with this.”

“No, it’s ... I want to be kept informed.”

Harry turned around. He could just about see his bedroom door from where he stood. He thought of the boy on the other side of the wall. Did Draco know? He wouldn’t have done all of this if he’d known, would he? Harry wondered pathetically how he could have had such a sense of total euphoria and complete satisfaction just less than a minute ago. 

This was supposed to be a good thing. They were supposed to forget about all the family feud bullshit, and go to dinner and make out and be happy together. Be boyfriends, eventually. And after that, who knew...

Surley, this couldn’t be all they were meant to have. A few hours of groping and confessions and whispering sweet nothings, only for it to be prematurely shattered. His knees were shaking as he made his way back to his room, ignoring Remus’ question of, “Harry, what’s that on your neck?”

Draco was sitting up on his bed, his shirt collar popped and hiding most of the lovebites. He looked up at Harry, and he knew instantly that Draco understood everything that was going on. 

“Did you know?” Harry asked. “If you knew ... if you knew, I’ll never forgive you.”

Draco moved to put his arms around Harry, but he stepped back, away from him grasp. 

“I knew something was coming,” Draco confessed. “But I didn’t know what. Honestly, I never thought my father would do anything so drastic.”

“Draco, I think you should leave.”

His face fell, from tight with concern to flat, understanding the reality of the situation. He stood so that he was at eye-level with Harry, and said, “Will you call me later?”

Harry made no response, but it seemed to convey what he wanted to say. At last, he muttered, “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

He tried to ignore the pain in Draco’s voice as he replied, “Please, don’t say that.”

He tried to ignore the anchor on his chest as he marched Draco to the elevator. 

He tried to ignore Remus and Sirius shouting after him as he hurried back to his room, asking what Draco had been doing there.


	11. The Pencil That Broke The Dipshit's Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco officially has nothing left to lose. He decides to confront his father, but gets caught up in a mess he never saw coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you weren't too happy with the cliffhanger, so I'm gonna appease you with another chapter tonight. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of alcohol, brief homophobia, Lucius Malfoy's shitty parenting, life-threatening situation, rapid deterioration of mental health (not D or H), mention of murder

**DRACO**

Draco stepped out of the elevator, and realized that his shoes weren’t tied. He couldn’t really bring himself to care. His mind was caught in a limbo between the satisfaction of knowing that Harry was his at last, and the shock of being so quickly thrown out of the flat. 

He’d heard that people who’ve been shot don’t always feel the pain right away. That the shock acts as some sort of anaesthetic. As he stepped out, onto the street, he decided the same must be happening to him now. 

He wasn't hurting. Not yet. There was bewilderment, and so, so much regret. Maybe a splash of humiliation. He pat down his pockets, making sure he hadn’t left anything behind. _That_ would make for an awkward conversation. 

‘I know we’ve just broken the world record for Shortest Relationship, but could you let me pop in to get my keys, please?’

Thankfully, everything was accounted for — keys, wallet, cell phone. Draco tried not to think about how his jacket pocket felt empty without Harry’s book weighing it down. How was that for a fitting metaphor?

Once he was settled in the backseat of a taxi, the pain started to prickle in his chest. He was well and truly alone, now. Things might have gone so differently if he’d only been able to explain himself better. Jesus, was Harry waiting for him to come back and apologize?

And while there was truly nothing less daunting in Draco’s mind than having to spend the rest of his life with those morons Crabbe and Goyle as his closest friends, he began to hurt on behalf of Harry. 

Harry’s life had hardly been simple. Everyone knew that. But Draco thought of how it must have felt to find out about the possible downfall of his family’s business, and to more-or-less break up with his not-quite boyfriend, all within the span of two minutes. 

He should have done better by Harry. He should have fought for them. He should have been born into a different fucking family. 

And just like that, Draco’s pain was consumed by rage. Lucius truly wouldn’t rest until he saw every good part of Draco’s life destroyed. He remembered stepping into his father’s office, what felt like ages ago, to discuss the latest scheme to bring down Malfoy Enterprises’ so-called arch-enemy. Back then, Draco wasn’t worried. Not because he didn’t care for Harry as he does now, but because Lucius went through these schemes the way most people went through toothbrushes. 

The prick just couldn’t stand sharing the spotlight. He let his power-frenzy overtake his own values. Draco thought of all the times Lucius mocked everyone in the low-brow entertainment industry. He never imagined M.E. would be throwing their hat into that so-called cheap, rotten ring. 

He tossed a couple of notes over the driver’s seat as hard as someone could throw paper money, and got out in front of his house. His father wouldn’t be home, yet. After these meetings, he and the corporate goons always stayed at some posh hotel to review the days’ events. Clearly, there was a lot to discuss this time around. 

The grandfather clock in the foyer read 10 pm. It would be morning, at least, by the time Draco got the chance to confront Lucius, and he didn’t think he’d be able to go that long without bursting into flames. Or worse, losing the confidence he always worked up while angry. 

On his way to his bedroom, Draco paused at the liquor cabinet and rifled through their vast stock of alcohol — they had a lovely bottle of Château Margaux that was begging to be opened — but drinking just hadn’t been the same since the disaster at Fudge’s birthday. 

Instead, he settled for getting drunk off of The Smiths. He didn’t particularly care that it was so clichéd. Maybe he needed a bit of cliché. Maybe he needed to eat an entire pint of ice cream in his pyjamas and cry while watching _Ghost_ or _Titanic_ like they did on TV. 

Draco fell asleep sometime after midnight, his headphones still on and cranking the mopiest indie songs he knew of. His dreams were warped and distorted, somewhere between giving Lucius the punch in the face he deserved and a dramatic, heartfelt reconciliation with Harry. In the rain. With flowers. 

He was startled awake the next morning by a door slamming shut, and he knew at once that his father was home. Slammed doors were pretty much Lucius’ theme song. 

At first, all Draco felt was the regular dread of being reminded that he was in a vicious place. Which made him feel afraid. And small. He wanted to fold in on himself, to take up the least amount of space possible. 

Then he remembered yesterday’s shitshow, and all of his anger came flooding back. It consumed him to the point that it overtook his fear, and gave him enough courage to go speak to his father. 

He marched down the corridor in yesterday’s clothes, his head held high, even though his hands trembled at his sides. He went to his parents’ bedroom, and entered without knocking. 

Lucius was sitting in a leather armchair by the fireplace, hunched over a stack of documents on his lap, reading glasses perched low on his nose. Draco took one look at him, and his courage dropped by half. Lucius smacked the stack of documents and exclaimed, “What have I told you imbeciles coming up he— oh. It’s you.”

That was the first thing he had said directly to Draco since Fudge’s party. 

“Father, I—”

“Draco, let’s not fool ourselves here,” Lucius interrupted, his bitter tone flawlessly conveyed in just six words. “I’ve neither the time nor the desire to speak to you at this moment. I’m very busy. Besides, someone of your ... _ilk_ shouldn’t be loitering around indoors. Get along, then.”

Something inside of Draco, a voice that was barely his own, was imploring him to just do as his father said, and forget the whole thing. But all it took was one moment of remembering Harry’s face the other night for him to plant his feet firmly and say, “No. I need to speak with you.”

Not waiting for another interruption, he continued, “I wish I could say that I’m surprised at what you’ve done, father, but the only thing that surprises me is that you’re suddenly so eager to join the entertainment industry. That family has lost enough. It’s ... it’s _wicked_ of you to do something like this, that will destroy their business and eat away at their money. Sirius was one of our own! And Harry’s just a boy. None of them deserve this. Least of all you. You shouldn’t be allowed all this success.”

“I would not say such things if I were you!” Lucius snapped. In spite of himself, Draco had to bite back a laugh as an image of the evil Prince Humperdink from _The Princess Bride_ came to mind. “Let me remind you of who you are, boy. You would be nothing without my work. You’re hardly anything now. Nothing useful to this family or the world around you, with your novels and your medicine, and your—”

Lucius stopped himself, and Draco tried not to think too hard about what he was going to say next. 

“Well, so what?” Draco said. “Just because I’m not brainwashed like the rest of you doesn’t mean I’m incapable of noticing that this business is built on more lies and illegal activities than an American election! Do you think I’ve never noticed the mysterious cheques, or all those imports that you try so hard to hide from the police?”

Lucius slammed his fist onto the arm of the chair. He spoke quietly, although anger seeped through his tone. “I thought I’d already warned you about being an ingrate. Perhaps all that time spent fooling around with that dunce Potter has rotted your brains. Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest!”

“ _Do not_. Speak about Harry like that,” Draco seethed. 

Lucius leapt to his feet, papers flying everywhere. “I’ll speak about anyone, any way I damn well please!” His hair quivered as he spoke, slipping out of place and making him look even wilder than usual. “You don’t get to be where I am without being well-informed. I’ve had sources — _several sources_ — tell me of your sudden close relationship with that boy. We will not tolerate an improper affair of any sort between the two of you. Is that understood?”

Draco didn’t reply, so Lucius repeated himself. “ _Is that understood?_ ”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Draco said. “I’ve left once. I’ll do it again.”

“I’ve half a mind to chain you to your bathtub, remove your ability to leave entirely. You know far more company secrets than any outsider should. If it weren’t for that, I would have sent you away weeks ago. You must learn, boy, that nothing comes easy in this business, but we carry on either way. Do you have any idea, the lengths I’ve gone to to see this family thrive? To ensure your success?!”

Draco had never seen his father so angry. Something snapped. His eyes were wild, and his hands shook violently. “I have been _desperate!_ So, so desperate, ever since I first heard the name ‘Marauders Incorporated’ to see them crash and burn. For too long, we haven’t been at the top of the food chain. I will stop at nothing to see them gone. That was why I stooped as low as to expand to the entertainment industry. _That_ was why our people bought off Peter Pettigrew all those years ago, got him to ... shall I say ... eliminate the threat of James Potter.”

As Lucius spoke, Draco reached a hand into the pocket of his jacket. He tried as best he could to keep looking forward while he blindly fumbled with his phone, tapping at where he desperately hoped the ‘record’ button was. 

“Of course, that moron overreacted and killed his wife too. He was supposed to take out Black and Lupin, but Black figured him out. Beat him nearly to death, the thug. For sixteen years, I held my tongue, and Marauders Incorporated remained a thorn in my side. I tried again, at the beginning of the summer. Had you figured that out, Draco, if you’re so smart? Hired men with guns can do as much as any man in a boardroom, so I thought I might invite them to a certain gala.”

Draco’s stomach was slowly sinking as his father spoke, but it dropped to the floor all at once with that revelation. 

“And I’ll be damned if I let my own pathetic son stop this all from coming to pass.”

Lucius stepped away from the fireplace, and Draco flinched before he could stop himself. But instead of hitting him, he just stepped over to the balcony door, and stared out at the street below. Draco took advantage of the moment, and with trembling fingers, he ended the recording, and sent it to the only person he could think of who could come to the rescue. 

The person who always came to his rescue. 

He sent it to Harry. 

**HARRY**

Harry wanted two things. 

First, he wanted Ron and Hermione to stop staring at him like he had lobsters crawling out of his ears. Second, he wanted to rip a hole in the fabric of the universe, and disappear forever into a void of nothingness. 

Harry was ready to snap in front of their faces, to make sure they hadn’t been petrified, when Ron said, slowly, “So ... you and Malfoy ... wait, you didn’t fuck, did you?”

Harry buried his face in his hands, and Hermione exclaimed, “Oh, for heavens’ sakes Ron! That’s hardly relevant!”

“ _No_ , we did not fuck,” Harry said. “I didn’t know what to think. I still don’t. I’ve been wanting this for a long time — longer than I knew I did — and now his family’s gone and done something like this, and everything Remus and Sirius and my father have worked for is just about ruined, and I’m caught in the middle of it all.”

After a moment, he added, “The worst part is, I’d still go back to him.”

Hermione’s eyebrows were furrowed, and she spoke slowly and carefully, trying very hard to not say the wrong thing. “Well, Harry, Ron and I obviously support you, regardless of your sexuality.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, mate,” Ron interjected. 

“And we’re here for you, even though I can’t begin to imagine the stress you must be under. I can’t help but feel partially responsible, you know. After all, I _did_ say your friendship might be good for the companies. But we can’t make your decisions for you. Especially when it comes to relationships.”

“Wish I could say all this trouble with M.E. surprised me,” Ron muttered. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Harry, what happened, that was his father, not Draco. He isn’t just another Lucius, just like how you aren’t just another Sirius or Remus or James.”

“He _knew_ though,” Harry said. “He knew something was going to happen, and he came to my house anyways, and he kissed me anyways, and he said all these things — I feel like a pawn. What if that’s all it was?”

Hermione rested her hand on his shoulder. “This is a business feud, not an MI6 operation. Nobody sent Draco here undercover.”

Harry rested his head in his hands. “You’re right,” he said. “This is all a moot point, I guess. I said it earlier, I’d still go back.”

“You can’t go thinking like that, Harry,” Ron said, for the first time that afternoon offering helpful advice. “If you do, you’ll just hold it against him. Listen, do you believe that he wasn’t just plotting against you this whole time?”

“I want to.”

“Would you be willing to talk to him about it?”

“I guess I would.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

Harry took a moment to think. Of Draco’s wit, his soft side under all those layers of defenses, of words highlighted in a book. 

_There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men. True nobility lies in being superior to your former self._

Harry’s former self would have only seen a monster vaguely resembling Draco Malfoy. Now, he saw a scared young man caught up in a feud he wasn’t a part of and didn’t understand. 

“Yes,” he said at last. “Yeah, I do.”

Ron and Hermione began talking over each other, and Harry could only catch snippets of what they were saying. 

“— never thought you’d be so romantic, Harry.”

“I suppose this means we’ll have to make friends with Draco now—”

“— really _will_ be good for business—”

“— just make sure the two of us are in the wedding, yeah?”

Harry ignored the blush that crept onto his face at that last remark. The three discussed the best way to apologize, and to talk things through. Flowers? Too showy. A restaurant? He isn’t Michael Corleone. While they were bouncing ideas around, Harry’s phone vibrated. He checked his messages, frowned, and showed the phone to Ron and Hermione. 

Draco had sent him a video of a black screen. Hermione reached over and turned the volume up all the way, and Ron mumbled, “Dunno if that’s a good idea, Mione, might be, er, _private_ , you know.”

But Hermione just shushed him, and they all leaned in around the phone to listen to the distant voice of Lucius Malfoy himself, going on some horrific rant about all the terrible, and certainly illegal, schemes he had come up with to put an end to Marauders Incorporated. Harry thought he was going to faint when he heard the words, “And I’ll be damned if I let my own pathetic son stop this all from coming to pass.” Hermione gasped aloud, and Ron had gone pale. 

The recording ended abruptly, and Harry checked to see if there were any accompanying messages. 

“What—what does that mean?” Harry said. “What’s happened to him? Why ... should I call him?”

“No!” Hermione exclaimed. “If Draco is in trouble, I’m sure that getting a call from the child of their archenemy will only put him in more danger. It’s up to us to help him, now.”

“Well, what’re we going to do?” Ron asked. “We can’t just storm in their house with guns blazing.”

“We’re wasting time here,” Harry said. “We could phone the police, send in an anonymous tip.”

“They would never believe a bunch of teenagers,” Hermione said. 

“Well, let’s go over, then. The M.E. lot won’t recognize you two.”

“That would only be putting ourselves in danger, too.”

Ron, once again the voice of wisdom, interrupted with, “Why don’t we just tell Remus and Sirius?”

Which was how they found themselves huddled in his godfathers’ study, talking over one another, trying to explain what had happened as quickly and accurately as possible. Remus and Sirius’ expressions soon became even more bewildered than the time when Harry had explained why Draco needed to be fetched from a park in the middle of the night. 

When they finished talking, Sirius flung himself back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, and said, “Why can’t you three be drunk and disorderly like normal teenagers?”

“You of all people don’t really have the right to say that, Sirius,” Remus said, his voice strangled. “I think we should call the police. They’re professionals, they know what to do. If Lucius has gone off his rocker, we have to leave this to the experts.”

“I disagree,” Sirius said. “I know, firsthand, what it’s like to be in that family, and I know what it’s like when you’ve seriously pissed the figurehead off. The police will only startle them. Lucius might overreact if he thinks he’s headed for the joint. We should go ourselves.”

“And do _what_ , exactly?” Hermione asked, dubiously.

“We could try to talk to him like adults,” Remus suggested. “And if that fails ... we’ll just grab the boy and run, I suppose.” Then he added, “Ron, Hermione, you two should head home, now. Harry will let you know what’s happened when we get back.”

“We aren’t just leaving you now!” Ron exclaimed. “You need man power! You need moral support!”

Remus and Sirius exchanged a fond look. Harry knew they were reminiscing. Moments and people long gone. 

“Alright, but you both have to stay in the car,” Sirius said. “Go get your shoes on. We’d like to talk to Harry alone for a moment.”

Remus got up to close the door behind them, and then they both looked expectantly at Harry. When he said nothing, Sirius offered, “So, you like boys, then?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said. “I mean, not exclusively boys, but ... that’s something I’ve realized about myself lately.”

“We’re sorry if we’ve made you feel like you couldn’t tell us,” Remus said. 

“No, no, no, you’ve never — it’s just that, I’ve hardly even figured myself out, yet, and sometimes I feel like the world won’t even be that surprised. Like they wouldn’t understand.”

“What, that you were raised in an environment that was accepting of you no matter who you became?” Sirius said. “All that matters is that you’re being true to yourself. We’re very happy for you, Harry.”

“And very proud,” Remus said. “This is never an easy thing, especially for someone who’s shoved into the spotlight as much as you are.”

Harry beamed at his godfathers. “Thank you,” he said. “Really, I think I needed to hear something like that. And, um, while we’re on the subject, Draco and I...”

“Oh, we know,” Remus interrupted. “You’re not as subtle as you think, Harry.”

Harry buried his face in his hands, then dramatically ran his hands through his hair. He’d find the time to die of embarrassment later, though. 

The three of them put on their shoes and jackets, and went to join Ron and Hermione, who were already waiting by the car.


	12. Someone Get John Wick On The Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco deal with stakes that are higher than ever before as the feud -- both M.I. against M.E. and Draco against his family -- escalate to levels they never imagined possible. One thing's for sure, their lives will never be the same after this. But can they make it to the other side with their relationship intact?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter before the epilogue! Hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Life-threatening situation, use of weapons, minor injuries, breakdown(s), mention of blood.

**HARRY**

As they pulled up in front of Draco’s house, Harry realized that he’d never taken a good look at the building before. He had only seen it a handful of times, when Sirius would point it out while they were driving by, along with some harsh words that Harry didn’t dare repeat. He looked at Sirius now, and wondered how he must be feeling, going back to his childhood home. 

The building took up the entire street, and was several shades of grey. Pewter-coloured stone balconies adorned every room on the higher level. A few of the several chimneys were spurting heavy, dark smoke. 

Sirius caught Harry staring, smiled tensely, and said, “Looks just like it did before the Malfoys married in and took over.”

“Is the whole thing theirs?” Ron asked. 

“It is,” Remus replied. “And if I remember correctly, they haven’t got a doorman or lobby.”

“No one to sneak past but the bastards inside,” Sirius continued, nodding. “I don’t think we should just ring the doorbell and waltz in though, they’d only send us away.”

Hermione knelt by the door, inspecting the lock. Then she fumbled around in her pockets, took out her wallet, and picked out her driver’s license. “If this door is as old as it looks, this shouldn’t be too difficult.”

She slid the card between the door and the frame, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and a minute or so later, muttered something under her breath, and twisted the door handle. 

“How the hell do you know how to pick a lock?” Harry asked, helping her to her feet. 

“Why _wouldn’t_ I?” Hermione replied, like that was enough of an explanation. 

As Ron ran up the front steps, Remus said, “Hold on, now. The two of you have to get in the car. We won’t be bringing someone else’s children into a dangerous house.”

“But what if there are more locks that need picking?” Ron said. “And, er, I can throw a pretty good punch, so I could take care of myself, and...”

“Remus, Sirius, I think there’s a better chance of Bobby Charlton rising from the dead to win England the World Cup than there is of Ron and Hermione getting back in the car.”

His godfathers, yet again, exchanged a look, and Sirius said, “Alright, fine, but if either one of you steps out of line, I’ll kill you myself before anyone else gets the chance to do anything to you.”

Sirius pushed ahead, to the front of the pack, and nudged the door open. It creaked as it swung back, and Harry realized he’d been expecting it to. There was something eerily similar to a horror film about all this. 

The foyer was high-ceilinged and impressive, with a sweeping staircase that disappeared to the floor below. The walls were lined with portraits of stodgy-looking, middle aged people, who all seemed less-than-pleased at their presence. 

“Do we know where Draco was when he sent the message?” Remus whispered. 

“No,” Harry answered. 

“The bedrooms are this way,” Sirius said, nodding towards a corridor on their right. “We can start there.”

The five of them crept towards the corridor, none of them daring to do so much as breathe too heavily. They had nearly made it to the threshold when a shrill voice from behind them exclaimed, “What the hell is this?”

Sirius visibly flinched, and they all turned slowly at once to face a woman with a wild head of dark curls, and eyes that seemed just as manic. She sneered once she caught sight of Sirius, and said, “Well, cousin, I didn’t expect to ever see you here again.”

“I didn’t expect to ever _be_ here again, Bellatrix.”

She laughed, all high and cruel and terrible, then said, “Ooh, you’re in for it now, you filthy little traitor. Once Lucius hears about this ... even better, once the public hears about this! Believe you me, I won’t rest until every last one of you is rotting away in some pathetic little cell—”

“January!” Sirius said suddenly, startling not just Bellatrix, but all of the others. “January 2nd, 1993. You scamper off, right now, Bellatrix, or I’ll be doing some blackmailing of my own, making sure all the employees in this putrid company know exactly what’s so special about that date.”

Harry wanted to groan and roll his eyes. Sirius was just being dramatic again, and it would only get them into more trouble. What could be so damning about a date? But when Harry looked back at Bellatrix, her eyes had grown even more manic, bulging with terror. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed. 

“Oh, but I would. Walk out the front door this instant, or I’ll bring Lucius in here myself.”

_That_ was a ruse. Sirius knew as much as Harry did that Lucius knowing they were here would send their plans up in flames. Bellatrix didn’t suspect this, though, and she scurried out the front door before she could be threatened any more. 

“What happened on January 2nd?” Ron asked, amused by the situation. 

“Not important right now. This way. Keep quiet, all.”

They continued down the corridor, stopping at every door to press their ears to the polished wood. For such a large family, their house was ominously quiet. Harry pushed aside the dark thoughts that sprang into his mind. Maybe the job was already done. Maybe the family was all out disposing of Draco’s body. 

The next few doors proved just as unsuccessful as the first ones. Hermione was beginning to mutter about how just listening couldn’t be too effective. 

“What if they’re in there and just being quiet?”

Harry, too, was starting to give up hope, when a crash, like the sharp edge of something hitting the ground, came from the far end of the corridor. The five of them took off towards the giveaway door like a shot, all wordlessly agreeing to desert their plan of discretion. 

Sirius flung himself at the door without even checking whether it was locked. Harry supposed it must not have been, because it gave way too easily, the doorknob breaking a large hole in the plaster wall on the other side. 

There was a hurried movement from the opposite end of the room, and Harry caught sight of the two Malfoy men, scrambling to get away from the intruders. When they stopped moving, he could see that Lucius was holding on to Draco by a fistful of his hair, his other hand pressing a penknife to his throat. 

Harry hardly recognized Lucius. The man who was usually so composed seemed as though he was one mishap away from frothing at the mouth. Then, Harry realized he was examining Lucius so that he wouldn’t have to see Draco in such distress. 

He forced himself to avert his eyes downwards, and look Draco in the face. He hoped that his expression conveyed everything he wanted to say. 

_Everything is going to be alright._

_I won’t let him hurt you._

_Once this is all over, we can run away to some foreign country where no one knows our names._

_You matter so much to me, and I promise you’ll walk away from this._

If Draco understood any of that, it didn’t show on his face — he still looked terrified. 

“Not — Not one step closer!” Lucius spurted, glancing frantically between the five of them. “If any of you move, I’ll — I’ll slice his throat!”

“It’s a bluff,” Remus said, before any of them could react. “He’d never harm his only child and heir.”

Lucius laughed at that, all dry and cracked. Harry imagined he hadn’t laughed in years. The sound was far worse than Bellatrix’s. Draco flinched under his grasp, and Lucius tightened his hand in his hair. 

“You m-meddling perverts should know, of all people,” Lucius said. “He doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. Look at him. What use have I for a q-queer with no interest in the job he was born t-to do?”

And, as if to prove his point, he dug the knife into the skin of Draco’s throat, just enough to draw a bead of blood that ran down his neck, staining his collar. 

Harry’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “Fuck you!”

Lucius didn’t hear him, or at least made no indication of it. He just kept muttering, “Not one step closer,” and backing away, slowly, towards the balcony door. None of the rescuers dared to move, not even as Lucius kicked the door open and dragged Draco outside. 

Harry watched as Lucius shoved Draco towards the railing of the balcony, barking orders they couldn’t quite hear from inside. His insides twisted when he noticed Draco was crying, and without thinking, he moved closer to the balcony. Lucius spotted him, grabbed Draco by the back of his shirt, and shouted, “I mean it! I’ll push him down if you come any closer!”

So Harry stayed where he was, trembling, as Draco and Lucius climbed from the balcony railing, onto the roof. He knew Lucius would kill his son with the slightest provocation. He wanted to drop where he stood, into a ball and just sob. 

But just when all hope seemed lost, just when his friends and godfathers began to shuffle behind him, a match lit in Harry’s brain. He remembered standing outside the building. He remembered the balconies at every room. If this room was somewhere between the middle and the end of the building, then he could use the balcony in the last bedroom to sneak up behind them. It would be risky. He’d have to be careful, and silent on top of that, but it was the only thing he could think to do. 

He sprinted out the bedroom door, into the corridor. The others were shouting after him, but instead of turning back, he called, “I’ve got an idea!” over his shoulder, and kept running. 

The last bedroom, thankfully, was unlocked, and so was the balcony door. As he climbed onto the railing, he remembered trying a similar escape at that ill-fated gala. There was a funny sort of irony about this. Draco had saved him, then, and now it was his turn to return the favour. 

He clambered carefully and quietly onto the gently-sloping roof. Draco was still being held by Lucius, his wrist now pinned painfully to his back. The two were facing away from Harry, and he realized they were in a standoff with Ron, Remus and Sirius, who had followed them up while Harry was enacting his plan. Hermione was only just climbing onto the roof with the rest of them. 

Lucius said something, but the wind carried his voice away. Harry’s heart was pounding so hard that he worried the noise would give him away as he crept towards them. All he could do was hope that they wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t in the group in front of them. 

When he was no more than fifteen paces from them, a voice in his head pointed out that this was incredibly stupid. But then another voice told him to shut up, and Harry charged forward, tackling Lucius to the ground. He pulled his ridiculous, long hair for good measure, and didn’t care one bit that his knees were digging into Lucius’ stomach. Remus and Sirius rushed over to pin Lucius down properly, and Harry scurried back, barely getting to his feet before he dropped down again, to where Draco had fallen on the roof. 

His head was between his knees, and he had his shirtsleeve pressed against the cut on his throat. Harry knelt down in front of him, prying his face away from his legs, and kissed him. Softly, at first, because they had an audience, and then Draco worked his hand into his hair, and Harry cupped his jaw, and it became more heated, more desperate. Harry started to cry, along with Draco, but they only broke apart when the wail of sirens pierced the air. 

Harry sat down, next to Draco, pulling him into his side and rubbing gentle circles on his back. “Who called the police?” he shouted across the rooftop. 

“I did!” Hermione yelled in response. “Seeing as you were all being such dumbasses and kept putting it off!”

Draco laughed, so Harry laughed too. He rested his head on top of Draco’s, and they laughed until they were crying again. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “About everything. I overreacted the other night, you didn’t know, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s alright,” Draco replied. “I should have warned you, anyways.”

“Shut up. I’m the asshole here.” Harry fought back an unflattering sob, and added, “What if the last thing we ever did was argue?”

“ ‘S all we ever do anyways,” Draco said, and Harry was so relieved that he kissed him again. 

Police officers and paramedics made it onto the roof, and Harry realized it would be a long time before any of this would go back to normal. 

**DRACO**

Another ambulance, another shock blanket. 

But Draco was sitting up on a cot this time, the bandage on his throat scratching terribly, surrounded by friends. A new family, maybe. 

Harry had his arm wrapped around his waist, and was holding onto him like he may float away otherwise. Sirius kept a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he and his husband talked to the paramedics. He could just see Ron and Hermione sitting on the curb. 

When he was younger, Draco used to wonder what it would be like to be kidnapped, or chased by the monster under his bed. He would worry a great deal about living in a constant state of terror afterwards. But in that moment, he just felt numb. Almost as though none of this was real. The only thing he particularly wanted to do was to fall asleep snuggled into Harry’s chest. 

The senseless feeling wouldn’t last, though. Draco was certain that, in the near future, he’d be spending a small fortune on therapists. 

He kept thinking back, and wondering how any of this was real at all. He felt the penknife pierce his skin. He heard all those terrible things said about him. He watched his father be handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police car. 

A large officer stepped in front of Ron and Hermione and began to ask them questions. Draco looked pointedly away. The police had already hounded him while he was being looked over by the paramedics, and he didn’t care to repeat any of that. 

Harry must have felt him moving, because he pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and murmured, “Everything’s going to be fine, love.”

Draco wondered when he became _love._

Then Harry leaned over, to see past Draco’s head, and said, “Hey, Sirius! I’ve been meaning to ask, what was it about the second of January that got your cousin so scared?”

Sirius quirked an eyebrow, then smiled. “Oh, that,” he said. “That was the date of her sister Andromeda’s wedding. She’d been disowned for getting engaged to a man the family didn’t approve of, but Bellatrix snuck over to the ceremony, anyways. I knew that sort of thing could get you out on your backside, in a company like this.”

There was a squeal of brakes, and just out of sight, a car pulled over, the doors slamming shut. He heard hurried steps in noisy heeled shoes, and then his mother was standing at the back of the ambulance, her face streaked with smeared makeup and tears. 

Remus looked back at him and Harry, an eyebrow raised, silently asking whether she could come in. Draco nodded, and Remus offered his hand to help her into the ambulance. She bent over to push his bangs out of his face. Her eyes darted all over his body, pausing on the bandage on his throat. 

“Oh, Draco, I’m so sorry ... I hadn’t known ... never imagined he’d go so far. If I’d only been there, I would have — would have.”

“I know, Mum,” he said, offering a weak smile. 

She smiled in return, this time in earnest. “My darling boy. I promise, he won’t ever hurt you again. You’re loved. So very loved, and I value you enough for the entire family. Whoever you choose to be, I’m proud, and I will keep you safe.”

Draco started to cry all over again, and so did she, and then Harry joined in the sob-fest. She sat with them for another hour or so, and Ron, Hermione, the paramedics and officers came and went. Eventually, the Weasleys and Grangers came for their children, and the authorities began to pack up, as well, telling Narcissa when she and Draco should come to such-and-such station for questioning. A paramedic slipped Draco the business card for a psychotherapist as he helped him out of the ambulance. 

Narcissa told Draco to pack a bag, that they were going to stay in a company flat across town for the time being. Harry held his hand as they walked back to his building, and said, “Are you okay?”

Draco smiled, the broad and real smile that only Harry could get out of him. 

“Not in the slightest.”


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more feuding families. No more psychotic fathers. Nothing left to keep them apart. After the fallout, after having to piece together the shards of their old lives, the two families, who were once enemies, come together to celebrate the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who made this my most popular work to date! I hope you all enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mention of alcohol, mention of mental breakdown

_A Few Months Later . . ._   
**HARRY**

The lights of the Christmas tree reflected in the large windows in the lounge. Harry could smell the pot of homemade mulled wine from the kitchen, and his stomach growled at the thought of the dinner that was waiting for them. He checked his watch. The others should arrive any minute, now. 

He was sitting on the sofa with his godfathers, nibbling at a gingerbread man while watching _Home Alone_. Sirius got up to check on the wine, stopping to kiss Remus on the cheek on his way to the kitchen. 

Harry’s phone vibrated. He had a message from Draco. We’re here. 

He skidded over to the front door, tugging a pair of boots on his feet but not bothering to tie them up. When he got outside, Draco was helping the driver get some bags out of the boot, stuffed with elegantly-wrapped presents and lavish-looking food. 

“Hello!” Harry called. “Happy Christmas!”

Draco set one of the bags down on the sidewalk and smiled, then took a step forward to kiss Harry hello. It was only a chaste kiss — his mother was watching, after all — and Harry pulled back quickly, saying, “Oh my god, you’ve actually done it!”

He prodded Draco’s left ear, where he had a small, silver hoop in a brand-new piercing. 

“I did,” he said. “Seeing as I’m still not old enough to get a tattoo.”

“I wish you’d gotten the diamond earrings, dear,” Narcissa persisted, although her tone was gentle. 

Draco wrinkled his nose. Harry smoothed it out with his thumb. “Too ostentatious,” he said. “I was aiming for something more low-key.”

Harry snorted at that. Draco was about as low-key as the Queen. He took a bag, so that Narcissa wouldn’t have to, and showed them into the building. 

Only a few months had passed since that day on the roof, but so much had changed, it felt more like a few years. Malfoy Enterprises got the fate it deserved. The company was dissolved after the trial of Lucius Malfoy. Most of the employees were arrested, the others encouraged to resign and take a long holiday. Since they were still the legal heirs, the company’s money went to Draco and Narcissa, enough to keep them more than comfortable for a very long time. 

Lucius, however, was not sentenced to prison. Harry took comfort in the fact that he was in a place worse than a jail cell — St. Mungo’s Psychiatric Hospital, on the grounds of insanity. His health went into a steady decline after the trial, and most days he was barely even coherent. 

Things were better than ever for Marauders Incorporated, now that the seemingly indestructible enemy was defeated. Sirius kept saying that, without the constant drama, he was getting so bored he might just star in one of the films or programmes he dealt with all day. 

As they got to the front steps, snow began to drift down on the streets. Harry and Draco stopped to watch, while Narcissa continued upstairs. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it snow on Christmas before,” Harry said. 

“Well, that’s climate change for you,” Draco replied. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Alright, Scrooge, let’s see if some mulled wine will knock that stick out of your arse.”

“It better be as good as you say it is, Potter.” He only called Harry ‘Potter’ when he was teasing. “Or you’ll have to make it up to me.”

Harry hummed, and swiped at the fat snowflakes that were clinging to his hair. “I’ve got a few ideas that might please you.”

Draco smiled in response. They stayed out a moment longer, to watch the snow, before heading for the elevator. 

With all of the changes over the past few months, the most noticeable was in Draco’s behaviour. Harry didn’t mind, though. He liked to think that he changed with him. Draco was quieter, now. Conversations didn’t always come as easily, but just being near one another was enough. Draco was on the road to recovery, and he would see him through to the end of the lane. And then the next one. 

Sirius came running up to them when they got back to the flat, taking the bags out of their hands. 

“Oh, thank goodness, the ham,” he said, before running back to the kitchen. 

“Good to see you too, Sirius,” Draco said. “I’m having a very happy Christmas, thanks.”

Remus and Narcissa were chatting in the lounge, setting the presents under the tree and drinking the mulled wine. Harry went and got them each a glass, then sat next to Draco on the rug. 

“Cheers.”

Remus turned to Draco, already beaming. They’d taken a liking to each other, often leaving Harry and Sirius to sit, bored, while they chatted on and on about literature or history. “Hello, happy holidays. I’m dying to know, have you decided on a place, yet?”

University research had been one of the activities Draco’s therapist had suggested, to keep him distracted when he was beginning to feel off. Harry would do the research along with him, and in doing so decided to set his sights on studying criminology at the Queen Mary University of London.

“I have, actually. I thought about it a lot. And as you all know, Cambridge and Oxford first came to mind, but I think I’m finished with that ... _high-brow_ part of my life.”

“Stuck-up, you mean!” Sirius called from the kitchen, earning soft laughter. None of them knew if it was alright to laugh about those things, yet. 

“Anyways, I still wanted the best education I could find, and the best of both worlds seemed to be with—”

“—Drumroll, please,” Remus interrupted. 

“The Imperial College of London!” Draco said. 

The room cheered, which seemed a little unnecessary for just _deciding_ to apply to a certain school. Harry was proud, nonetheless. 

“You know,” he said, as Sirius came back from the kitchen, and he, Remus, and Narcissa began to talk over one another, “that’s only a half hour or so from where I want to go.”

“Is it?” Draco asked, raising his eyebrows, although he was smiling. “I hadn’t realized.”

Harry pressed a hand over his heart. “He turned down Oxford for me. How romantic.”

Draco shoved him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I never turned them down. Besides, I would have been suffocated there.”

“We can’t have that,” Harry said. He leaned back, to rest against the sofa, and looked up at Draco. He could practically feel the love radiating from his Heart-Eyes. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you, too.”

Harry wanted to kiss him. He wanted to tackle him and smother him with all the love and affection that he deserved, but their parents were right there, and Sirius would never let him live that down. So instead, he worked a hand into Draco’s smooth, sleek hair, mindlessly running his fingers through it. 

He wondered if his parents were looking down at them, somewhere. If they would be proud of him, in spite of all the messes he’s gotten into so far. 

Then he looked around the room, at the patchwork family buzzing with the promise of the future, and he knew that the messes were worth the reward, that all his life he had been heading towards this moment. 

Finally, they were who they were meant to be. 

Finally, they were riding in the waves of change. 

THE END


End file.
